The Pride of Gascony
by Richefic
Summary: D'Artagnan finds that life as a newly commissioned Musketeer does not run as smoothly as he might have wished. Especially when he crosses paths with an old foe of Athos. Will d'Artagnan continue to profit from his lessons and let his head rule his heart or will his Gascon pride be his downfall? Set between 1.8 and 1.9.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – Thank You BBC for such an inspiring series.

This multi chapter story is dedicated to Raouldefraser, Subrosa 7 and Nonny A for their kind support and enormous encouragement. Set between 1.8 and 1.9

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Prologue

D'Artagnan was not sure exactly what to expect. They had left him alone in a small room with only a table and chair for company, neither of which he could use, bound as he was hand and foot, whilst things were being "made ready". He sat against the wall and wondered, with an unfamiliar edge of despair, how things could have possibly come to this? When the three men finally came for him he could not read their expressions, silhouetted as they were against the bright sunlight. But he could see in their stance and the way they kept their hands on their weapons that they had every intention of following their orders.

"Up."

With his hands tied behind him and his legs shackled by a short length of rope, his struggled to gain his feet. Muscles stiff from sitting on the cold ground were slow to co-operate and he staggered like a new born colt. The men watched impassively and made no move to help him. Once he was upright a contemptuous push on his shoulder almost sent him toppling again as he was herded towards the door.

The small courtyard was close to deserted. Only a handful of men stood around. Some averted their gaze as he passed. Others spat at his feet. A few called out caustic comments that made his ears burn.

"_Gascon dog."_

"_No more than you deserve you arrogant little whelp."_

He was brought to stand between two of the pillars. The point of a main gauche pressed into the back of his neck, pinning him in place. He felt hot and cold as fear seized his heart and his body broke into a cold sweat. The ropes binding his hands were cut and each arm pulled almost out of its socket as he was made secure, muscles stretched tight across his shoulders as he strove to span the distance between the two posts. A hard kick moved his feet apart as they were tethered in their turn. The ropes bit viciously into his flesh as they were tugged sharply to ensure they would hold fast.

_God help me, they fully intend to see this through._

D'Artagnan felt the bitter taste of bile rise in his throat as the main gauche swept decisively downwards, cutting through the thin material of his shirt as his back was stripped bare. The three men stepped back and he was left helpless and exposed. D'Artagnan was too proud to beg. But that didn't stop the mantra running in his head. _Don't do this. Please don't do this. _He clamped his jaw tightly shut, in case the words should escape and shame him even more.

"You have brought disgrace to the regiment." A hard voice hissed in his ear. "Let this be a lesson to you."

D'Artagnan bowed his head to hide the sting of tears in his eyes at the shame of it all. He remembered how proud he had felt receiving his commission. The fond smiles of Aramis and Porthos as they had somehow procured the insignia out of nowhere, its handsomely tooled chestnut leather a perfect match for the jacket he usually worse. He had later discovered that his friends had it made some time earlier and been keeping it close, confident that it was only a matter of time before the King rewarded his loyalty.

D'Artagnan had been moved beyond words that Athos had been the one to step up and fasten it to his arm. The man had been patience itself tutoring him in swordplay and honing his temperament. D'Artagnan may not have liked all the "lessons" but having fought Lebarge he could appreciate that they had been necessary and had almost certainly saved his life. He owed Athos more than he could ever repay and his approval, that firm clap on his shoulder, had meant the world to him.

"Argh."

The cry was ripped from his throat as the first lash of the whip landed across his shoulders without mercy. D'Artagnan threw his head back as he tried to deal with the pain. His back already felt as if it was on fire. Still, he strove to swallow his agony, not willing to give his audience any further reason to doubt his character. He would bear this well if it killed him.

In his mind's eye he remembered another gathering, when every man in the regiment had assembled to welcome him into their fold. The joy he had felt at finally achieving his heartfelt ambition to become a Musketeer, his determination to serve King and country with honour, his vow that he would control his headstrong nature to be a good solider and make his friends proud.

"_You are a disappointment to me." Athos shook his head._

Those words had cut sharper than any whip. The look of reproach in Athos' eyes more than he could bear. Worse, d'Artagnan knew they had been no more than his actions deserved. As the whip landed for a second time, the smell of his own sweat mixed with the tang of blood in the air. D'Artagnan could see all too clearly the all things he could have done differently. The choices he should have made. Until there was only one thought left in his head.

Athos would blame himself for this and d'Artagnan found that pain the most unbearable of all.

tbc ..


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks earlier.

D'Artagnan was not exactly sure what to expect as he arrived at the Musketeers garrison. Treville had simply ordered him to go back to his lodgings, pack his belongings and report at the change of watch. Despite his heavy heart at thoughts of Constance, sufficient to deter him from any further entanglement with his new benefactress, his step had got increasingly lighter as he approached his destination.

_He had the King's commission. He was a Musketeer._

It was not the first time he had arrived at the Garrison to find the regiment assembled in the courtyard and Treville addressing his men. Slipping through the ranks he tried to catch Aramis' eye to find out what was going on, but the Musketeer was staring straight ahead, just the hint of a smile on his lips. To his left Porthos was grinning openly, but also refused to look at d'Artagnan. The Gascon started to feel slightly nervous. He belatedly recalled the many wild stories he had heard from his friends and their brethren about their initiations into the ranks of the Musketeers. He sincerely hoped his wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle.

"Do not concern yourself," Athos' voice spoke softly in his ear. "You have already defended the honour of the regiment once today. That is a good enough beginning."

Casting his friend a grateful smile d'Artagnan drew himself up with a little more confidence regarding whatever was to come. If Athos thought he could handle it then he was determined to prove him right. He should probably even try to enjoy it.

"D'Artagnan." Treville summoned him.

After that he would remember only snatches of the evening, Treville making a toast to celebrate his victory over Lebarge, Aramis insisting that he try his blue cloak on for size. Despite the fact that by its nature the garment was cut to fit all manner of men, D'Artagnan good-naturedly obliged him, grinning at the hoots and whistles of the assembled company as he modelled the garment. Porthos, already a little worse for drink advancing, towards him with a melon in one hand and a Musket in the other. He had briefly wondered if his career in the regiment might be over before it began, but, true to form, the melon was the only casualty.

Taking a moment to step back and observe the proceedings, d'Artagnan leant against one of the pillars and took a long swallow of wine. He had come to know a good number of the Musketeers since his arrival in Paris. A conversation over a meal, being matched to spar together, a few missions that had required more manpower than the four of them could alone provide. Also, d'Artagnan's willingness to help out with the day to day tasks required to ensure the regiment ran smoothly, such as exercising the horses, ensured there were few men with whom he did not already have at least a passing acquaintance.

Even so, d'Artagnan had been touched by their sincerity as they had officially welcomed him into their ranks. He had been clapped on the back so many times he knew he would have bruises tomorrow. Several had taken the time to personally congratulate him on his victory and to praise him for his courage in saving Treville. Taking another drink of wine and letting it warm him, he knew he had found a place he could belong. He might be a fatherless orphan, who had lost the only home he had ever known, but he could start to build a new life in Paris with his brothers.

_If only Constance had not broken his heart._

Wanting to block out those memories he drained the rest of his wine in a single, determined, swallow and reached for another bottle. Only to have his hand stayed by a firm grip on his wrist.

"I think you've had enough." Athos observed. "If you wish to be fit for duty tomorrow."

"I've not had nearly enough," d'Artagnan met his gaze. "I can still remember things I would rather forget."

Athos' expression softened slightly but he still placed the wine where d'Artagnan would have to go through him to reach it. The Gascon scowled slightly at the man's double standards, but in his heart he was grateful to Athos for saving him from himself. His father would certainly have expected better. Looking forlornly at bottom of his empty goblet d'Artagnan suddenly began to feel every ache and abrasion that he had picked up during his duel.

"I take it things with Madame Bonacieux have not turned out as you wished?" Athos enquired mildly.

"I don't want to talk about it." D'Artagnan looked away.

"As you wish," Athos was not about to press him. Not on this. Not when there were more important matters at hand. "Is your side bothering you?"

D'Artagnan flinched guiltily. He had hoped no one else had noticed that single unguarded moment when he had let Labarge slip through his defences and land a solid blow just under his arm. The leather of his jerkin had protected him from a killing blow. But when he had carefully peeled off his soiled shirt to inspect the sluggishly bleeding wound, the long, shallow graze, had been painfully red and raw. He was torn between shame that Athos had seen his error and feeling touched that his friend had noticed his discomfort.

"You're good at that." d'Artagnan observed, the wine he had drunk making his tongue looser than normal. "Noticing things, seeing everything, it's a bit annoying, but sort of nice."

"Should I thank you?" Athos observed dryly, as close to amused as he would allow himself.

"My brother never noticed anything," d'Artagnon threw his head back, resting it against the post as he closed his eyes against the memory, too lost in pain and alcohol to realise he was revealing his heartfelt desire that he had had a brother more like Athos. "I was always an inconvenience to him. He wanted to spend time with his friends and only tolerated me when father insisted he take me along. We had different mothers and he was much older so he never really cared for me."

"True brothers watch out for each other," Athos felt the truth and the pain of that statement right down to his soul. "So, I ask again. Is your side bothering you?"

"A little." d'Artagnan admitted.

Athos sighed. He was already all too familiar with d'Artagnan's tendency to want to down play his injuries. If the younger man was willing to admit to the least part of discomfort his wound must be quite severe. Or, he considered fondly, perhaps just this once his bruised heart was in need of the comfort provided by the kindness of others. Either way, Athos was taking no chances.

"Aramis." He raised his voice a little over the revels.

Despite the fact that the other Musketeer was presently fully engaged in proving to an appreciative audience that, notwithstanding the wine he had consumed, he could still walk along a plank someone had set up several feet from the ground, he immediately halted and pivoted on one leg like a ballerina, so he could see what Athos wanted. Abstractly, d'Artagnan wondered if he would ever be able to command such loyalty and obedience in others with a single word.

"A moment, if you please?" Athos inclined his head towards d'Artagnan.

Understanding instantly flashed across Aramis face before he schooled it into politeness so as not to attract attention from those around him. Putting a hand on the wood he vaulted lightly down to the ground and crossed the courtyard in quick, economic steps. From a corner Porthos immediately noted his movement and paused in his telling of some outrageous tale to meet Athos' gaze. Their commander inclined his head slightly. When he realised his fault d'Artagnan would need his friends around him. Porthos instantly cut short his tale and trotted over.

"Am I to take it Lebarge inflicted a little more damage than our young friend here was willing to admit?" Aramis enquired.

"So it would seem."

"That ain't good," Porthos frowned. "What's the plan?"

"You take care of the boy. I will divert Trevillle," Athos decided. "It would not do for d'Artagnan to begin his career as a Musketeer with a punishment. But make sure he understands the error of his ways."

He strode off without a backwards glance.

"Punishment?" d'Artagnan suddenly felt stone cold sober. "What did I do?"

"You remember the part after the fight, when Treville asked if you were injured?" Aramis asked kindly, as he took the young Gascon by the arm and hurried him into an adjacent room away from prying eyes. "And you told him you were fine? It's the duty of a Musketeer to report any infirmity so that his inability to fight cannot put any of his brothers at risk."

"Treville don't look kindly on anyone breaking that rule," Porthos said bluntly, keeping watch by the door. "It would mean a whipping for you for the omission and each of us for keeping it from him."

"I was trying to save his feelings," d'Artagnan protested, feeling hot and cold by turns that he might be considered to have committed such a fault and led his friends into trouble besides. He sank bonelessly into a chair. "I didn't want him to feel badly that I had been injured saving his life."

"We understand that and so does Athos," Aramis soothed. "Ah, I see from the way you are moving it's your side that most troubles you. Can you take your jacket off? Never mind let me take care of it."

He gave a long, low, whistle as he finally saw the damage.

"You, my friend, have had a lucky escape. I can dress this without the need for needlework. As long as you are careful Treville need not know. But you would do well to curb that Gascon pride. You are part of the regiment now and that means you have a duty to obey the rules, such as they are, whether you like it or not."

"Treville will turn a blind eye to a lot of things." Porthos observed. "And he won't punish a man for an honest mistake, but there are some lines you don't cross. Not if you like breathing."

"And you didn't think I needed to know these rules before?" d'Artagnan tried not to flinch as Aramis cleaned the wound and covered it with a bandage.

"You weren't a Musketeer before." Aramis pointed out.

"Uh oh," Porthos suddenly straightened up at something he had seen. "You may want to hurry things along a bit."

"Treville?" Aramis assumed.

"Worse," Porthos said flatly. "Garnon's back."

"And just when things were going so well," Aramis sighed, as he helped d'Artagnan back into his shirt. "Where's Athos?"

"Treville's office," Porthos supplied. "We still have time."

"Time for what?" d'Artagnan wanted to know. "Who's Garnon? What's going on?"

"Trouble." Porthos said darkly.

"How can I help?"

"By taking yourself upstairs to get some rest so we have one less thing to worry about tonight," Aramis patted his shoulder. "If I were Athos I would make it an order. But as things stand it is truly the best service you can do for us."

"But I want to help." D'Artagnan insisted.

"If Garnon discovers Athos sponsored his acceptance into the regiment, he's gonna take an interest in him and not in a good way." Porthos shot a worried look at Aramis.

"Wait," d'Artagnan demanded. This was the first he had heard of any such thing. "What do you mean Athos sponsored my acceptance into the regiment?"

"Oh, well done," Aramis rolled his eyes at Porthos.

"I thought he might have figured it out by now," Porthos turned around. "Treville ain't in the habit of letting just any man attend upon the King simply because they have a fancy to become a Musketeer."

"That _was_ a rather obvious clue." Aramis shrugged.

"So, when exactly did this happen?" d'Artagnan asked a little testily.

"After that business with the merchant Bonaire, Athos went to Treville to discuss your future. It was clear that you had a taste for soldiering and something of a talent for it," Porthos admitted.

"But you were also young and far too impetuous for your own good," Aramis put in. "Athos offered to sponsor your training with a view to earning a commission in the Musketeers. Why do you think no one ever questioned your presence?"

"I never thought about it," d'Artagnan said honestly. "Wait. Did _everyone_ know about this except for me?"

"Not everyone," Aramis attempted to comfort. "I'm almost certain no one bothered to mention it to Jacques the stable boy."

"It ain't easy to become a Musketeer," Porthos shrugged. "Most of us have been soldiers before."

"The only other way would be a period of service in the King's Guard," Aramis agreed. "But to secure such a position you would need a father, a brother, or an uncle, who could provide a recommendation to the King, which you, my friend, don't have."

"Plus that lot wouldn't watch your back like we would," Porthos put in. "Every man for themselves they are. Athos didn't want that for you. Nearly took ten years off his life, when he thought Vadim had killed you."

"Is that so?" A new voice asked from the doorway. "How very touching, it seems I may have misjudged Athos. He is not _just_ a coward but a sentiment fool as well."

"Garnon," Porthos hissed, his face twisted with hate. "You never did know when you wasn't wanted."


	3. Chapter 3

Many thanks for all the reviews and favs and followers. I hope you are enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying trying to get inside the character's heads. This is turning into a fairly epic tale so expect several more chapters! This time, Garnon reveals his true colours.

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"Porthos," Garnon greeted him with disdain. "I thought for certain you would have hung by now as the criminal you were born to be. I would say it was a pleasure to see you again. But we both know that would be a lie."

As the man stepped into the room d'Artagnan was surprised to see that the focus of his friend's enmity had the unmistakable bearing of a man of breeding. Also, that he was dressed in the blue cloak of a Musketeer with the pauldron displayed prominently on his right arm.

"On second thoughts," Porthos gave a feral smile. "I am pretty happy to see you. I can't wait to smash your smarmy face in. _Again._

"The nose does rather suit you," Aramis spoke, making a little gesture to indicate the slightly bulbous and obviously misshapen result of a well-placed fist. "It makes you look less like a son of the nobility and more like the back stabbing villain you truly are."

"Aramis," Garnon looked him up and down. "Still trying to play the gentleman I see. You always did have aspirations far above your rank."

"Remind me again how many older brothers you have?" Aramis enquired mildly. "Was it nine or ten? Still, at least you do not have to bear the weight of your father's expectations. I'll warrant he can barely remember your name."

Garnon narrowed his eyes and took a deliberate step forward, before he spat in Aramis' face.

Outraged at the insult to his friend, d'Artagnan's hand went straight to his sword hilt. Only to have his wrist encircled in Porthos' iron grip.

"Don't." He warned sotto voice.

"Didn't you see what he did?" d'Artagnan hissed. "We can't let him get away with insulting Aramis like that."

"I saw," Porthos nodded. "But this ain't the way."

Aramis simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a costly linen handkerchief. Never breaking eye contact with Garnon he carefully wiped his face, folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.

"Is that really the best you can do?" He taunted lightly.

"Do not think I have forgiven or forgotten the least part of what you did," Garnon seethed. "Scum like you have no place wearing the uniform of a Musketeer."

"Why are we letting him say things like that?" d'Artagnan demanded to the room at large, not understanding when even this insult did not have his friends reaching for their swords. "He has insulted you both to your faces and called Athos a coward when he is not here to defend himself. Surely he must be made to answer for that?"

"I would take offence," Aramis looked pained. "But it is hard to care about the opinions of a man for whom I have absolutely no respect."

"What say you, Porthos? Do you let un-bearded boys fight your battles for you now?" Garnon tried to provoke.

Without so much as glancing at d'Artagnan Porthos easily blocked his impetuous surge forward with an arm across his chest. They had all rather quickly realised that the young Gascon was more than a little touchy about his inability to grow a full beard.

"Leave 'im out of it, Garnon."

"Oh, I have no personal quarrel with young d'Artagnan," Garnon assured smoothly, causing Aramis and Porthos to exchange an unreadable look. "Although, I much admit I am curious. Just how did an untried Gascon farm boy, with no source of income since the _tragic_ loss of his family farm, afford the extensive costs associated with becoming a Musketeer? Especially since he is an orphan with no other family to call upon?"

Aramis sighed and bowed his head to the inevitable storm.

"Costs?" d'Artagnan lifted his chin defiantly. "I have paid my own way. My weapons are my own. I have given my service freely, my friends have done me the honour of sharing their training and I have received nothing from the regiment except those things which are necessary to do my duty."

"Supplies of ammunition from the armoury, three times daily victuals for your stomach, a new pair of boots from the cobbler, two new shirts to replace those damaged beyond repair, stabling for your horse, which alone required a new set of horse shoes, several warm bran mashes, a new blanket, a number of poultices and a whole sack of carrots." Garnon tipped his head on one side. "All items which must be settled by account, out of your stipend. Need I go on?"

"What?" d'Artagan blinked.

"There are certain allowances if you are a _commissioned _Musketeer, although even those are not without limits." Garnon allowed.

D'Artagnan visibly paled casting a stricken glance at his friends as he realised from their expressions that Garnon spoke the truth. Yet he had never paid a single one of those costs. He had been given a small purse by Treville after his defeat of Vadim, but when he had received no further income from his farm he had used that to pay his rent.

"Not to mention the coin that must change hands to pay for the lawyers to draw up the letters of commission, or the cost of outfitting a man with full dress uniform," Garnon looked at his fingernails in a show of unconcern, even though he had to be fully aware of the blows he was landing to d'Artagnan's pride. "Still I am certain that Athos feels his money is well spent. I have heard such _stirring_ tales of you. How you came charging into the Garrison and challenged him to a duel, only to end up saving his miserable life, the way he and his fellow misfits here have taken you under their wing and together you have defeated the enemies of France and even protected the King himself. How the man _Trevillle_ names as his best swordsman, quivered in the background like a nervous virgin, passing up his chance to defend the honour of the regiment, in favour of a boy who was not even a Musketeer. You must think a great deal of yourself."

To Garnon's evident surprise and Aramis and Porthos' obvious relief d'Artagnan simply smiled at this last. On that point, at least, he was sure of his ground. Athos had only ever participated in the trials in order to further the younger man's training. From the first he had been determined d'Artagnan should have the chance to finally earn his commission.

"_You are a Musketeer in all but name."_

"As you are so well informed you must also know it was Treville who named me as the Musketeers' champion." D'Artagnan was actually a little proud of his tone of utter disdain. Especially when he saw Porthos' lips quirk. Still he couldn't help being a _little _smug. "All I did was win."

"And now you are a fully-fledged member of the regiment," Garnon was not congratulating him. He stepped towards d'Artagnan as if advancing on some particularly desirable prey. Glancing in slight alarm at Aramis the quick shake of his friend's head warned him not to react. When he was so close that the younger man could feel his foul smelling breath, Garnon raised a hand and patted him condescendingly on the cheek. It took everything d'Artagnan had to remain still. "We shall have to see if you are equal to that challenge. It would be a shame to see your commission revoked before you even had time to break in the uniform."

"That sounds very much like a threat."

D'Artagnan felt the grin spreading across his face as he heard the ice cold fury in Athos' voice. He could not understand why Aramis and Porthos had allowed this man to act as he had without redress. He could only imagine that, given the bad blood between them, they were leaving the matter to Athos. Surely now, Garnon would be made to give satisfaction for his slurs? And he for one was more than looking forward to seeing it.

"You dare laugh in my face, boy?"

D'Artagnan only had a second to register the blur of movement as Garnon raised his fist and then to realise that in the confines of the small room that he had little chance of evading a blow from such close quarters, before Garnon's face, still merely inches from his own, twisted in pain.

He watched, as Athos used the powerful grip which had halted Garnon's fist in mid-descent, to twist the man's arm painfully behind his back so that they all clearly heard the 'pop' as his shoulder dislocated. Gaping like a fish as he tried to bear the pain, Garnon was forced to his knees, before Athos stepped in to loom over him, his tone so cold with suppressed fury, that d'Artagnan, who had heard him face down murders and criminals of the worst sort, barely recognised his voice.

"You will leave my friends alone. Do you understand?"

"Aragh." Garnon managed.

"I think you can take that as a 'yes'" Aramis allowed, as he put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his feet, with a satisfied look.

"Good," Athos was succinct. "Just one more thing."

He drew back his free hand and laid Garnon out cold with a single punch.

"It's usually my job to do the punching." Porthos was quick to complain. "I was looking forward to laying 'im out."

"My apologies," Athos gave his friend a little nod of contrition. "Although, I dare say you will have other chances. Garnon's word is hardly reliable."

"Will someone please tell me what is going on?" d'Artagnan demanded. "Who is this Garnon? Why is there such animosity between you and a fellow Musketeer? How could he be allowed to say such things? Any other man would have been forced to recant at the point of a sword!"

"We can explain," Porthos patted his shoulder soothingly. "But not where there are so many ears flapping."

"Let us retire to my rooms," Aramis decided. "We can have privacy there and space enough for us all to rest in comfort."

"I'm in." Porthos agreed readily.

"If that is what it will take to get some answers. What about him?" d'Artagnan looked at the still unconscious form of Garnon.

"Leave him, if we are lucky he may choke on his own vomit" Porthos sounded deadly serious.

"Shall we go?" Aramis suggested.

All three men looked at Athos, who had yet to respond to Aramis' suggestion.

"You should come," Aramis invited lightly, but with a thread of concern underlying his words. "None of us have eaten yet and I have a particularly good burgundy you would enjoy."

"Plus we'd feel better if we were watching your back." Porthos was blunt.

"Much as it pains me to refuse such a gracious invitation," Athos cast a fond look at his friends. "I actually came to tell you that Treville has need of my services. He was due to ride to meet the Abbot at Rouen on the King's business tomorrow but with his shoulder as it is I must go in his stead. I leave at first light."

"Come and eat with us, at least," Aramis pressed. "Then you can secure what little sleep you can. My rooms are closer to the Garrison that yours. It will save you time."

"I assume you are not going to take 'no' for an answer?" Athos arched a brow.

"No this time," Aramis smiled at him. "In my capacity as your personal physician I might even make it an order."

When they arrived at Aramis' lodgings, Porthos took charge of cooking something in a large pot over the fire, d'Artagnan was tasked with finding glasses and opening the wine, whilst Aramis insisted on taking Athos aside into his bed chamber to clean up his damaged knuckles once he realised one of them had split with the force of the blow used to render Garnon senseless.

Urging the other man to cast off his hat and his weapons, he settled him on the bed. As he set to work he recounted everything Garnon had revealed.

"He was only just returned to Paris, yet he knew everything about d'Artagnan," Aramis worried, as he used a cloth dipped in warm water to gently wipe away the drying blood. "It's clear he has been keeping an eye on your affairs."

"How did the boy take it?"

Aramis wasn't surprised that, despite the threat posed by Garnon, d'Artagnan was his friend's first concern. Athos had always been the type of leader who cared for his men, but from the first his connection with the young orphan, who was striving to make his way in the world with honour, despite having neither rank nor coin to support his ambitions, had been more familial.

"His pride was a little dented when he realised you had financed his training," Aramis surmised. "But I think more due to the fact that that he had been utterly oblivious than any offense."

"And Garnon?" Athos' undamaged fist clenched.

"Our young friend could not understand why we would not draw in the face of such insults," Aramis risked a glance at Athos expression. "He will need answers if he is to be sufficiently on his guard."

"I know." Athos sighed, looking unusually weary. "I had hoped this matter was behind us."

"Let us talk to him," Porthos entered, bearing a tray with a full plate, a glass and a freshly opened bottle of wine, which he set down beside the bed. "You need your rest if you are to have sufficient wits about you to represent Treville in the morning and this might take quite a while."

"It is my fault that he is now in danger." Athos shook his head stubbornly.

"As I recall we all had a hand in it the proceedings," Aramis simply took matters in to his own hands and began to remove Athos boots. Above he was aware that Porthos was doing likewise and easing their Lieutenant's leather jacket off his shoulders. "We can tell the tale as well as you."

"Better in fact," Aramis could hear the smile in Porthos' voice. "You're always too modest for your own good."

"And," Aramis sank back on his haunches and met Athos eyes, his tone deadly seriously. "You are too quick to torture yourself for failings which are not of your making. As your friends and brothers we simply cannot allow that. Not when it is in our power to ease your burden."

"What he said." Porthos vowed.

Athos was uncertain how to respond. Four years ago he had wondered exactly how he had deserved his friend's steadfast loyalty in the face of Garnon's betrayal. Now they were all closer than brothers. But even so, at times he was still somewhat overwhelmed by their determination to take his part, especially when he felt so undeserving.

"Make sure you eat," Aramis's understanding tone saved him from having to say anything at all. "The Bordeaux will go down all the smoother on a full stomach."

"And rest easy," Porthos reassured. "We've got d'Artagnan."


	4. Chapter 4

AN This story is officially beginning to take over my life! I hope you enjoy the next chapter. There are a few notes at the end, if you like those sorts of things.

"You could just start at the beginning?" d'Artagnan suggested. "When did you first meet Garnon?"

The table was littered with the remains of their meal. The light under the door to Aramis' bedchamber where Athos was sleeping had long since been extinguished. At some point Aramis had kicked off his boots and Porthos had removed his jacket. From the back of a cupboard Aramis had unearthed a rather dusty bottle of brandy.

"It's as good a place as any to start," Porthos agreed.

"It was four years ago now," Ever the genial host Aramis poured the brandy into three glasses. "It seemed that each day there were more challenges to face, ever more frequent missions, sending us to all four corners of the realm. The regiment was being stretched to breaking point and we could not recruit men of sufficient quality fast enough to ensure the King's safety."

"Treville was faced with a devil of a choice," Porthos recalled. "Hold fast to the standards of the regiment and risk the King. Or recruit and be dammed."

"Garnon?" d'Artagnan guessed.

"He was well bred, his father, the Comte de Lyon, being often at court, although as the youngest of ten sons he himself was relatively unimportant," Aramis allowed. "He was handy with a blade and had been well educated. A man like that should have been an asset to the regiment."

"Shame he was such a git." Porthos observed.

"And yet," d'Artagnan scowled into his glass. "_He_ appears to have no trouble securing the King's commission."

"You saying you would have wanted to do that any different?" Porthos indicated d'Artagnan's pauldron with his glass. "Things being hard won just makes 'em all the sweeter, you know."

"A little too obvious?" d'Artagnan had the grace to smile ruefully at his youthful resentment.

"Just a bit," Aramis looked fondly at him. "If it's any comfort, Garnon's father paid rather handsomely for his commission. Apparently, he had grown tired of his son's actions threatening to drag the family name through the mud, or even the courts of law. Perhaps, he hoped that a little time spent soldiering would knock him into shape."

"Or maybe that it would solve all his problems," Porthos observed wryly. "Dying in battle has to be better for the family reputation than watching 'im be executed for some crime or other."

"Surely Treville would never let a known criminal become a Musketeer," d'Artagnan spoke without thinking.

"You think there is always a choice?" Porthos spoke quietly.

D'Artagnan was mortified as he realised his indiscretion. The values his father had taught him in the comfort and security of their farm in Gascony no longer seemed so black and white here in Paris. He wasn't sure if Porthos was referring to Treville's predicament in having to accept Garnon or risk offending the King, or his own situation where Porthos had had no choice but to turn to crime, growing up as he did. Either way he strove to make amends.

"I'm sorry," He hoped Porthos could see how sincere he was. "I seem to be taking my own good fortune for granted rather a lot today."

"S'alright," Porthos forgave him easily. "None of us can help our upbringing. Aramis' parents wanted 'im to become a priest."

"Somehow, I cannot see that as your true calling," d'Artagnan shook his head at his friend. "Although, the robes _would _look good on you."

"You should see him in a dress." Porthos chortled.

"It was one time," Aramis rolled his eyes at d'Artagnan's gleeful expression. "We needed a decoy and I lost a bet. Now can we please get back to the matter in hand?"

"Garnon's connections could only get him so far," Porthos spoke up. "He was a good fighter but a rubbish leader."

"Garnon saw deference as his birth right, without the least consideration that a soldier needs to love and respect a man they might follow unto death. Not just fear them." Aramis mused.

"A man like Garnon you followed at your own risk." Porthos observed bitterly. "He soon put people's backs up."

"What happened between him and Athos?"

"As demand on the regiment increased Treville let it be known that he needed a man to serve as his Lieutenant," Aramis recalled. "Someone who could take charge if he were called to be absent, a man with enough breeding not to seem out of place at court, but with the heart of a soldier."

"Right off, Garnon assumed that he'd be the one chosen," Porthos shook his head in bemusement. "Granted he'd led a few missions that weren't complete failures, although his men got hurt more often than most and yet he never seemed to have a scratch on 'im."

"Surely Athos was the obvious choice?" d'Artaganan said loyally.

"Obvious perhaps to everyone but Athos," Aramis sighed. "He had not been long with the regiment and he had made it known he wasn't the least bit interested."

"Once Garnon reckoned the promotion was his for the taking, he got too confident for anyone's good." Porthos spoke darkly. "Things happened, people got hurt."

"_You_ got hurt," Aramis traced a finger around the rim of his glass. "If we had not returned when we did .."

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asked cautiously.

"Athos happened. When he discovered what Garnon had done his sense of honour and duty wouldn't let a man like that lead the regiment into disaster," Porthos' expression softened as he recalled how Athos had stood by him and d'Artagnan pretended not to notice that he had not directly answered his question. "He went straight to the stables and fetched out a horse whip."

"The beauty of it was," Aramis smiled coldly. "Athos never actually laid a finger on him."

"_You think you can stand in judgement over me?" Garnon mocked. "A man who consorts with thieves and adulterers? Someone who cannot get through the day without losing himself in a bottom of a bottle? You should look to your own conduct."_

"_Oh, I have," Athos vowed. "And my only regret is that I did not act sooner before you harmed one of the finest men I have ever met."_

_Garnon's confidence faltered slightly in the face of such absolute resolve. Around them the regiment had formed a loose sort of circle. He stared contemptuously at the solders closet to him._

"_I am the son of the Comte de Lyon and I demand that you let me pass."_

_A few of the men shuffled their feet uncertainly and looked to Athos for guidance. At the slightest shake of his head they again closed ranks. _

"_You are rather fond of giving orders," Athos observed mildly._

"_And I am accustomed to having them obeyed," Garnon lifted his chin. "As I have a right to expect."_

"_I have always believed that the true measure of a man is not in his linage but the manner in which he conducts himself," Athos gave a little flick of the whip. _

"_What could you know of such things?" Garnon bristled. "Do you think that because some village curate has taught you to read and some rudiments of conduct that you can speak as if you were my equal?" _

"_On the contrary, I am well aware that we are not equals," Athos sounded almost amused._

_Looking at the faces of the assembled company Garnon felt the first stirrings of fear. Every expression was hostile, a few with lips curled in contempt, others smirking with glee at his predicament. Even if he tried to run there would be little chance of escape._

"_Kneel." Athos commanded._

"_Put an end to this now and I will see to it that no man other than Athos suffers for his folly." Garnon tried to appeal to the crowd._

"_You forget, they have already suffered at your hand." Athos advanced, placing the tip of the whip under Garnon's chin and looked him in the eye. "A true leader should never ask anything of his men that he is not prepared to endure himself."_

"_You wouldn't dare." _

_To his utter modification, Garnon heard his voice quaver. A few sniggers from the assembled company told him that his weakness had not gone un-remarked._

"_Kneel!" Athos' tone was pure command. _

_Garnon felt his knees weaken and buckle in the face of such stone cold fury and before he quite realised it he was on his knees in the dirt._

"_Treville" He called an edge of panic in his voice. "Captain Treville!"_

"_Treville is not here," Athos advised him calmly as he circled around and reached down to rip the shirt from his back, leaving it exposed. "And, even if he was, he would not see or hear anything."_

"_You cannot do this!" Garnon felt his fear rising, no longer much caring that his demands now sounded more like begging. "My father will hear of this. The King will hear of this, a lowly musketeer dares raise his hand to a son of the nobility? I will see that you lose your commission and then I will see you hanged."_

"_Good luck with that."_

_Athos appeared utterly unmoved by the threat. Coming around to Garnon's left side he lent in and whispered something in his ear. With those words Garnon's last thread of hope that Athos would not dare do this vanished and with it his last shred of dignity._

"He soiled himself in front of the entire regiment?" d'Artagnan exclaimed.

"Uh huh." Porthos grinned.

"What on earth did Athos say to him?"

"Don't know," Porthos frowned.

"We never really thought about it." Aramis admitted.

The two friends exchanged a quizzical look. At the time they had not much cared. It was enough to see Garnon snivelling on his knees in the mud, smelling like a stable. After that it had not even been worth beating his miserable hide so complete already was his humiliation.

"I do believe he realised that our good friend Le Comte de la Fère outranked him." Aramis decided.

"That would explain what happened next." Porthos agreed.

"There's more?" D'Artagnan looked at his empty glass "If there's more I'm going to need something else to drink."

"Oh no, you don't," Aramis vetoed that. "Athos will skin all of us alive if you report for your first day of duty looking the worst for wear."

"Porthos is still drinking."

"I've had more practice," His friend mocked lightly saluted him with his glass. "You need to build these things up gradually."

"How am I supposed to do that if I you won't let me drink?" d'Artagnan asked slightly petulantly.

"Alright, but no more after this," Aramis relented as he topped up his glass. "Treville doesn't take it kindly if his men are late for morning muster and a wounded shoulder will do nothing to improve his temper."

"Please tell me Athos challenged Garnon?" d'Artagnan looked hopeful.

"He couldn't," Porthos shook his head. "Red Guards are fair game, as long as you don't get caught. Treville hates them almost as much as we do. The occasional fist fight he might overlook or assign extra duties depending on what happened. But the Captain won't stand for any duelling among the ranks."

"He has the King's ear on that, draw on a fellow musketeer and it means instant dismissal." Aramis agreed.

"So, they didn't fight?" belatedly d'Artagnan was beginning to think he might have had just a little too much to drink after all.

"Didn't say that. Garnon drew his head in for a bit, but we knew was too good to last," Porthos looked grave. "Coward that he is he waited until he could turn the odds in his favour and even then he cheated."

"We had just returned to the city after a week on the King's business. We were tired, more than slightly drunk and just a little bit sloppy," Aramis looked pained. "Garnon chose that moment to challenge Athos against everything our brother hood stands for."

"Athos rightly refused to draw. He was walking away when Garnon ran him through from behind." Porthos scowled.

"Athos was forced to draw in self-defence but the wound was deep and bleeding freely so that when he moved to engage it drove him to the floor."

"Athos just managed to block Garnon's blade using his left arm before he collapsed. There was no way we was going to let him die like that."

"Porthos laid Garnon out with a single punch," Aramis raised his glass in a small toast to his friend. "It was truly some of his best work, the nose was completely shattered and the blood was everywhere."

"Aramis took care of Athos," Porthos put in. "It needed fifteen stiches to close up the wound on his shoulder."

"That many?" d'Artagnan paled.

"At the time I thought it might be beyond my skill." Aramis paused, lost in the pain of it all. "Despite my best efforts infection set in and he was wracked with fever for days. For a while I truly thought we would lose him."

"_Why_ does Garnon still live?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"What were we supposed to do?" Porthos retorted, slamming his glass on the table for emphasis. "We had to keep the matter from Treville. We blackmailed Garnon into keeping his mouth shut and I told Treville the fault was mine. Athos and I had been training and I had misjudged the distance."

"You told him it was an _accident_?" d'Artagan could _not_ believe this.

"Given severity of the wound Treville was not best pleased, or entirely convinced, but nor was he willing to dig too deeply. At that time, Porthos had not done as much sword work as Athos or I so the story had some validity." Aramis observed.

"Oh well, that makes everything alright," d'Artagnan scoffed, before surging to his feet. "Garnon cheated and then almost killed Athos. He should at the very least have lost his commission. He should be dead!"

"Right or wrong Athos still drew," Aramis pointed out, rising in his turn to grip d'Artagnan by the arm and give him a little shake. "If Garnon was expelled from the regiment Treville would have had no choice but to expel Athos also. And that would kill him surer than any blade. We won't let that happen. Not then and not now. You understand?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Can I assume, from all the shouting, that you have told him everything?" Athos put in from the doorway.

* * *

AN - The Comte de Lyon did exist and was relatively important but as this is a fictional story and Athos' title is largely fictional too I am going to assume Athos as the titular holder can outrank a youngest son. Rather to my own surprise I discovered that the term adulterer may also be applied to single people who sleep with others who are married, (sorry Aramis), Also historically speaking although any duel was technically illegal I realise in the climate of the time it would be nigh on impossible for even Captain Treville to prevent his men from fighting but I rather liked the idea that Musketeers should not challenge each other and it is rather essential to the the final outcome so I hope you will indulge me. Thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

"My apologies," Aramis was the first to respond, his voice full of contrition. Athos was supposed to be resting, instead the dark shadows under his eyes stood out starkly against his unusually pale complexion. "We should not have disturbed you. Please feel free to go back to bed."

"Or since you are up anyway, there's brandy," Porthos offered. "I'm guessing you weren't doing all that much sleeping."

"Not as much as I needed," Athos acknowledged as he sat down and scrubbed a hand over his face, as if that could help rub out the remaining traces of his nightmares. His skin still pricked with cold, clammy sweat. "Rather more than I wanted."

D'Artagnan felt slightly ashamed of himself as he saw Aramis and Porthos exchange a look of concern over Athos head. Watching Aramis add more wood to the fire, feeding the flames so that Athos would not get a chill and Porthos move to fetch a fourth glass so he could be restored by the warmth of brandy he wondered how he could ever have let his anger let him lose sight, even for a moment, of how devoted these men were to each other.

"Brandy," Porthos spoke decisively, putting the glass down in front of Athos and filing it to the brim. "Best cure for a bad night's sleep, unless you want me to punch you again?"

"That won't be necessary this time, thank you," Athos picked up the glass and drank it down in one. Porthos refilled it without comment. Athos glanced up at the others. "I think you two should probably both sit down."

They took it as the order it was intended to be and settled back at the table, Aramis stretching his long legs out in front of him and d'Artagnan looking everywhere except at the faces of his friends.

"How many times?" Athos asked calmly, raising a brow at Aramis.

"Five." Aramis admitted reluctantly.

"_Five_?" Athos frowned. "You are quite sure. You don't need a moment to think about it?"

"In his defence, Garnon was trying to provoke us. He even mentioned the beard. You know how touchy he gets about that," Porthos allowed. "Don't be too hard on him."

"Mollycoddling him won't keep him alive," Athos said but there was no heat in his tone, he looked over the top of his glass at Aramis. "I can understand why you were not quite yourself. Are you alright now?"

"He doesn't even realise." Aramis pointed out.

"Indeed. Have you forgotten my lessons so easily?" Athos looked straight at d'Artagnan.

"What?" d'Artagnan straightened up, as he belatedly realised the turn the conversation had taken. Although on reflection perhaps he had been a bit hasty. "Alright, so I was a little upset that Garnon nearly killed you. I shouldn't have shouted and I should have found about more about what really happened before I made any judgment."

"You're right, he really doesn't know," Porthos shook his head at d'Artagnan. "That's not it."

"Earlier this evening there were five occasions when you would have engaged Garnon if Aramis and Porthos had not been there to stop you. Which means by now you would either be dismissed from the regiment or dead." Athos eyed him sternly.

"Nobody told me I wasn't supposed to fight him." D'Artagnan protested.

"They shouldn't have to. You are a soldier now and a King's Musketeer. You need to acquire the discipline not to answer every insult with a sword."

"Sometimes you have to pick your battles," Porthos advised. "Use your head a bit. There are other ways of getting one over on someone other than challenging them to a duel."

"Besides do you really want to meet your end over some meaningless trifle or other?" Aramis wondered. "Imagine what it could look like on your grave stone."

"If you cannot learn to control your emotions they will always control you," Athos reminded him. "You have wits, when you care to remember, it would be a better recourse to try using them instead."

"I won't apologise for caring about you." D'Artagnan remained stubborn on that point.

"And I won't apologise for trying to keep you alive," Athos gave no ground in his turn.

"So, are we good?" D'Artagnan smiled.

"Until the next time you do something rash and almost get yourself killed." Athos tipped his head in fond acknowledgement.

"I will try to avoid that," d'Artagnan vowed sincerely, then his brow furrowed slightly.

"You still have questions." Athos realised.

"If Garnon is a musketeer, why have I not met him before? Where has he been for the last four years? If he has waited this long to return there has to be a reason he has chosen today?"

"We are sorry," Aramis patted his shoulder absently. "This was supposed to be your day. None of this is quite what you deserved."

"I will still be a musketeer tomorrow."

D'Artagnan's gracious reply caused his friends to exchange little glances of affection and approval. Such qualities were exactly why this young man fully deserved to join their ranks.

"If he could Treville would have washed his hands of Garnon," Porthos spoke up. "Instead, he did what he could. Using him as a courier or putting him on ceremonial duties where he could strut around like a peacock without hurting anyone."

"If you had known to look you might have seen him sometimes at the Palace." Aramis looked at Athos, a hint of something in his eyes. "Although, he usually took care to avoid crossing our paths."

"Do you think he wants to discredit Athos?" d'Artagnan worried.

"He can't bring up the duel without exposing his own actions," Aramis reassured. "And Trevillle has the utmost regard for Athos. He would never believe any slur on his character or conduct. It must be something else."

"Well, it's not me," Porthos declared.

"No," Athos did not try to hide his pride at whatever it was Porthos had done. "Garnon would be a fool to underestimate you for a second time."

"What about you?" Porthos looked at Aramis. "Garnon spends a lot of time at court. He might have heard some dangerous gossip?"

"Nothing incriminating," Aramis assured them. "Not recently anyway."

"There is a remote possibility that he might have been recruited by my wife to kill me." Athos admitted.

"I thought you said she was dead?" Aramis frowned.

"It seems I miscalculated," Athos looked uncomfortable. "She would welcome my demise. She has already tried to kill me at least once and may also have had a hand in that business with Gaudet."

"And you did not think it worth mentioning this?" Aramis looked disapproving.

"I believe I just did."

"Wait, you both knew he was married?" d'Artagnan cast a look of betrayal at Aramis. "But that night at the tavern you led me to believe you knew nothing about it."

"In my defence we _had _only just met you," Aramis pointed out. "And the fact that his wife betrayed him by murdering his brother so he was forced to have her executed is not the sort of thing that generally comes up in polite conversation."

"But then you asked me not to tell them what happened at the manor house," D'Artagnan looked at Athos.

"They worry." Athos admitted.

"We have served together for five years. Without sufficient alcohol Athos has no defence against the nightmares," Aramis observed sadly. He was looking at d'Artagnan but there was no doubt his words were meant for their lieutenant. "It is always the same. He is never in time to save his younger brother, or himself from the torment that it was his own wife that slit Thomas' throat, even though he could have done _nothing _to prevent it.

"Well, it's definitely not me I never even met the man until tonight." d'Artagnan sought to distract attention from Athos' pain. He squinted at his suddenly empty glass. "Is there any more brandy?"

"Just how much brandy has he had?" Athos' attention sharpened.

"I will fetch some blankets," Aramis evaded the question. "He can sleep on the chaise."

"I'll help." Porthos decided retreat was the better part of valour.

"Why didn't you tell me you sponsored my acceptance into the regiment?" d'Artagnan asked plaintively into the sudden silence.

Athos' ire softened in the face of the boy's raw vulnerability. One of the reasons he was such an outstanding leader of men was his ability to judge what each man needed in order to flourish. And right now the last thing d'Artagnan needed was another scolding.

Moving around the table he took a firm grip on the back of his jacket, hauling him manually upright and steering him towards the chaise. He sat him down on the padded brocade and knelt at his feet as he began to pull off his boots.

D'Artagnan felt oddly comforted as he let Athos take charge. Just the scent of him had begun to mean safety and security. His deft touch conveyed strength and reassurance. But he stubbornly resisted the pull of sleep as he waited for him to answer his question.

"thos." He prompted.

"You would have felt obligated to refuse and that would have been a dreadful waste of your potential." Athos obliged, as he easily pushed the boy down onto the chaise, slipping a pillow under his head and lifted up his legs.

Stretching out on the well stuffed upholstery d'Artagnan wanted to argue that he had had the right to know. He wanted to protest that he would have welcomed Athos support and been grateful for all he had done. Instead his last conscious thought was that his pride would never have allowed him to accept such a generous gift and that Athos knew him better than he did himself.

"He out for the count?" Porthos returned, sounding amused.

"I cannot imagine why,"

Athos spoke icily as he fixed his two comrades with a withering glance, one which had Aramis in particular, shuffling his feet and avoiding his gaze.

"Are we just going to leave him like that?" Porthos wondered.

They all looked down at d'Artagnan, already snoring softly, stretched across the chaise, still dressed in both jacket and breeches with the tan leather pauldron firmly buckled to his right arm.

"It will only awaken him if we try to remove it." Aramis offered.

Given the amount of brandy the younger man had apparently consumed on top of the wine he had already had, Athos privately thought nothing short of the second coming would rouse him just now. Although, when he remembered the fierce pride he had felt buckling the insignia into place he felt equally reluctant to remove it.

"It needs breaking in," He took refuge in practicalities. "A few creases or a scuff or two would be a good beginning."

Aramis carefully spread the blanket he had fetched over the sleeping form, taking a moment to stroke d'Artagnan's hair gently in the process before stepping back.

"You know it is rather unfair to berate him for his lack of judgement and then use it against him." He observed astutely.

"He is too ready to believe the best of people, that in itself will lead him into disaster, he is also entirely too reckless and impulsive for his own good. His tendency to follow his heart rather than his head will most likely be the death of him." Athos observed gruffly.

"He is also brave as they come, loyal to a fault, has the wits to get himself out of the trouble his tongue can talk him into, a resilience of spirit despite the fact that the world has not always treated him kindly, a good heart who is quick to help others and the ability to make even you smile." Aramis gave no ground.

"Got you wrapped around his little finger, he has," Porthos remarked sombrely.

"And his loss would utterly destroy you." Aramis observed quietly. "As is Garnon's true intention."

Athos did not respond immediately. To lose either Aramis or Porthos would be a shattering blow. But they had all met as soldiers. His comrades forged and tempered by their own experiences when they had come together to share their strengths. Athos was bound to them by love, loyalty and their common experience of battle but they all remained very much their own men.

D'Artagnan had come into his life as a young man full of potential. But one cast utterly adrift by the recent loss of his father. In the wake of that, the Musketeers and Athos in particular had all but adopted him. Aramis had developed his skill with a musket. Porthos had tutored him in hand to hand combat. But it was Athos who had been the true architect of d'Artagnan's journey to earn the King's commission as a musketeer.

At first he had thought it was because he saw something of Thomas in the younger man. It was true that dealing with d'Artagnan he often felt that fond exasperation common to big brothers everywhere. However, as they had grown closer he had realised that d'Artagnan reminded him a great deal of his younger self. The man he had been before Thomas was murdered, before he had even met Anne, when everything had seemed possible.

Athos knew he would never marry again. God help him part of him would always love Anne and the part that hated her for her betrayal would not allow himself to be that vulnerable again. Although their age difference was not so great, in d'Artagnan he had recognised a chance to leave a lasting legacy. To give something good back to the world to atone in some part for his failings. And in return, the boy had been a balm to his battered soul.

"I rather fear Garnon may not be satisfied with simply killing him." He said, at last.

They all knew that there were worst things than dying. That there were ways to destroy a man, to strip him of everything he was and leave him a shell of his former self, so that death would seem like a blessed relief.

"Without me he would not be in such danger." Athos berated himself.

"Without you he would not be a musketeer." Aramis was quick to correct.

"And he'd have made a rubbish farmer," Porthos in his turn, was having none of this. "Nothing but all that ploughing and sowing, he would have been bored to tears, not to mention all the mud. You know how he hates getting mucky."

"Nothing to shoot at except birds," Aramis joined in.

"And no reason to wear his sword, except for dancing," Porthos finished. "Now that would have been a proper waste of his talent."

"You are right, of course," Athos allowed himself a fond smile. D'Artagnan would never have been satisfied with such a life, better that he was here with them where they could keep him safe than any other outcome. Still, glancing out the window at the first tendrils of dawn light, Athos had never felt so reluctant to do his duty. "It's time I took my leave. Try to keep out of trouble?"

The three men looked solemnly at each other. As soldiers they knew each leave taking might be their last. It was part of who they were. But not something they ever took for granted.

"Be safe my friend," Aramis shook Athos' hand, his eyes dark with worry. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That does leave a multitude of sins." Athos observed dryly.

"See, anyone who says you have no sense of humour, hasn't spent nearly enough time annoying you," Aramis laughed as he was once again reminded exactly why he loved this man so much.

"I don't like it," Predictably Porthos was more obviously unnerved as he gripped Athos shoulder tightly taking strength from the warm clasp of his arm he received in return. "You should have one of us with you. What if something happens?"

"The greatest danger is that I shall die of boredom," Athos assured him. In his mind his friends had the more important task "Watch over d'Artagnan for me. Now Garnon knows the love I bear for him he will seek to destroy him. Keep him safe."

The next morning d'Artagnan awoke to an unfamiliar ceiling and a shaft of bright sunlight which sent such a dagger of pain through his forehead that he simply groaned and slammed his eyes tight shut. Not even registering that it was quite possibly much later than he normally awoke.

"Quick, get up," Aramis' voice broke into his thoughts. "We are disgracefully late and Treville will have us guarding the Palace lap dogs if we do not make haste."


	6. Chapter 6

AN – Sorry for the long delay, I have been trying to incorporate various bits that have particularly struck me in PMs and reviews – one turned into a whole new chapter. There will be about 10 chapters in total. Hope you enjoy.

The sunlight was much too bright. Aramis had offered him a hat but he thought that it might actually_ hurt_ to wear it. D'Artagnan's head already felt like a hammer was pounding against the inside of his skull. He had a raging thirst but was wary of putting anything at all in his stomach. They had already had to stop once when just the smell of fresh baked bread had made him violently ill right there in the street. And that was only the half of it.

"I look like a scarecrow." He protested.

"Better than being on punishment for not passing muster," Aramis was pragmatic. "Your breeches are covered in mud and your shirt was stained with blood from that wound you are _not_ supposed to have. We are already late. Trying to access the garrison to change would only attract Treville's attention."

"We are King's Musketeers but we can't manage to sneak into our _own_ garrison so I can get a clean shirt?" d'Artagnan groused.

"We only try to sneak past Treville when it's a matter of life and death," Porthos looked much too cheerful in d'Artagnan's opinion, having drunk more brandy than him and Aramis put together. "And you already have a clean shirt."

"Aramis' shirt is too long on me," d'Artagnan, tried, unsuccessfully, to hitch it about to make it more comfortable. "The shoulders are in the wrong place and I can barely see my hands."

"But the cloak is quite dashing and covers a multitude of sins," Aramis assured him. "Granted it is not usually worn at morning muster but hopefully Treville will pass that off as the exuberance of youth."

"So, I'll just be a laughing stock then?" d'Artagnan gave him a sour look already imagining the plaudits and congratulations of yesterday turned to sniggers and outright taunting as the Gascon farm boy turned up dressed like some ridiculous mannequin.

"D'Artagnan," He was stopped by Aramis' hand on his shoulder as he spoke as seriously as d'Artagnan had ever seen. "This is our fault as much as it is yours. If we did not have other concerns we would have anticipated your need last night or woken earlier this morning. If there is any blame to be had it shall be equally shared, you understand?"

"What happened to "everyman for himself?" d'Artagnan teased.

"Rest assured any man who dares mock you shall answer to Porthos." Aramis said loftily.

"Porthos?"

"His disapproval always has such a lasting _impact_." Aramis grinned.

"You think you've got reason to feel embarrassed?" Porthos put a friendly arm around his shoulder. "Ask Aramis about the time he got into a spot of bother when we were on campaign. He ended up with barely a scrap of clothing to his name, and had to "acquire" a beautiful chemise and a lovely pair of breeches that were drying on the lavender hedges of a noble house."

"You stole them?" d'Artagnan's Gascon upbringing was torn between shock and amusement.

"Of course not," Aramis affected offence. "I paid the laundry maid in full with a kiss."

"The chemise had ruffles," Porthos grinned. "And these little blue ribbons threaded around the collar. And the breeches were crushed velvet. He cut quite the dash among all the mud and the muck. Even Athos struggled to keep a straight face."

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Aramis defended himself. "You would do well to remember that d'Artagnan if you want to be a successful musketeer."

"Right now I am just trying to work out how to walk without catching my sword in the folds of this cloak." D'Artagnan complained.

"We really do need to augment your wardrobe," Aramis decided. "That way you can keep a few items at our lodgings for this kind of eventuality. You need more shirts, maybe some darker coloured breeches and you are sorely in need of at least one other jacket."

"What's wrong with my jacket?"

"Nothing at all," Aramis soothed. "But no one item of clothing can suit every occasion. Remind me to introduce you to a young woman of my acquaintance."

"There's always a woman." Porthos shook his head.

"Mademoiselle Jeanette du Bois is an excellent seamstress and I can get you a very good price."

To say they made it in time would be a slight exaggeration but they did manage to fall in on the end of the third rank just before Treville reached them.

D'Artagnan stood as straight as he could and tried not to attract any undue attention. Garnon, who was two places to the left of him turned and gave him a hard stare. The Gascon tried to ignore him even as he hastily tucked in his too long shirt and pulled Aramis' cloak a little tighter around him to try to cover the mud stains on his breeches.

"D'Artagnan," Treville's sharp gaze raked over him missing nothing. "Did you lose a bet?"

"No sir," d'Artagnan flailed around for an idea. "It's just with the challenge and then change of lodgings I did not realise I had got behind with my laundry."

Behind him one of the men laughed and d'Artagnan could feel his face burning, even as he tried to stand up a little straighter.

Treville resisted the urge to scrub his good hand over his face. The boy had many good qualities but he was a terrible liar. No doubt the celebrations last night had got a little out of control. Treville had to acknowledge his own part in this, sending Athos away on the King's business, just when his young protégé was most in need of his guiding hand, rather than the somewhat more reckless encouragement of Aramis and Porthos.

"I expect my men to be more resourceful," He raised his voice so it would clearly carry across the ranks. "When we go on campaign there won't always be a washer woman on hand to launder your smalls."

D'Artagnan could feel his face burning and several of the men laughed, the sound hastily cut off by what d'Artagnan assumed was Porthos' glare.

"Yes sir."

Leaning in so that he breathe ghosted over d'Artagnan's ear Treville admired the way the young man held himself steady and tried not to flinch.

"There had better not be any repetition of this. I won't be so lenient a second time."

When the assignments for the day were handed out d'Artagnan inwardly groaned to find himself in a group including, Aramis and Garnon practicing with the various firearms from the armoury. His head was already pounding.

"The one day I would have welcomed a nice quiet ride in the countryside." He murmured to Aramis.

"Go and get changed," Aramis instructed. "You won't be able to shoot anything with your sleeves flapping around like that. I'll see if Serge will slip us something by way of breakfast. It will make you feel better, trust me."

He watched as d'Artagnan promptly went an unusual shade of green at the very thought of food and then winced in sympathy, as the younger man bent over and expelled everything left in his stomach.

"Although, that method is also quite effective." He observed.

Rather to d'Artagnan's surprise things did gradually improve. His headache began to recede and he even ate some of the bread and cheese Porthos thrust under his nose. With Aramis' patient tuition his shots became more consistent and got increasingly closer to the centre of the target.

As the morning wore on d'Artagnan was surprised to that Aramis had fallen into conversation with Garnon. He was a little too far away to hear what is being said but Garnon looked up at him with a predatory smirk on his face. When Aramis returned to his side he launched straight into the finer points of trajectory without offering any explanation.

"What was that about?" d'Artagnan asked at last, keeping his eyes on the target.

"What was what?" Aramis, did not look at him, moving around to adjust the placement of his hands.

"You. Garnon." D'Artagnan took his shot.

"A little to the right, try not to let the barrel drop," Aramis advised, before adding. "Just a little contest, nothing to worry about."

"A contest?"

"Don't you want a chance to defeat Garnon?"

Two targets were set up at the far end of the courtyard. All the other men stood to one side as they started taking bets on the outcome.

"The challenge is best of three," Aramis advised. "The distance is a little further than you have been used to but at least the targets don't shoot back."

"That's a comfort," "d'Artagnan looked at the targets. They did seem a _little _smaller from this distance. "I suppose I'll be standing you drinks all evening if lose?"

"Actually, I already made a small wager with Garnon," Aramis took a sudden interest in the sky. "My stallion against that dark bay he came riding in on."

At first d'Artagnan supposed he must have misheard him. But then Aramis just grinned at him with that mixture of glee and devilry that meant he was extremely pleased with himself and d'Artagnan's heart sank as he realised his friend was deadly serious.

"You bet your _horse_?"

"Of course not," Aramis shook his head. D'Artagnan's surge of relief was quickly dashed as his friend continued. "Rather, I have just arranged to acquire Garnon's horse. Which is a particularly handsome beast, not to mention having to purchase another will put him to a great deal of inconvenience."

"And what if I lose?"

"You're not going to lose, I am an excellent teacher." Aramis preened, patting his student's shoulder absently. "Just do exactly as I taught you."

"So, no pressure then?" d'Artagnan sighed.

"D'Artagnan you are young and you still have a good deal to learn. But you have never failed us when it counted," Aramis assured him. Then he grinned. "Did I mention that this has to count?"

Readying himself to face the target, d'Artagnan wished with all his heart that Aramis had not bet his beloved stallion. Still now he had no choice but to see this through. For the sake of Porthos' hurts and Athos betrayal over and above Aramis' love for his stallion.

D'Artagnan's first shot equalled Garnon's. His second hit the target dead centre, putting him ahead. Now all he had to do was make sure his third shot _counted_ and he would be the overall winner.

He fired.

"He missed," Garnon crowed. "He missed."

"Wait, no there must be some mistake." Aramis exclaimed.

"Garnon wins," Treville confirmed from where he was inspecting the target. "See here, d'Artagnan only managed two hits."

A quick investigation found d'Artagnan's musket ball embedded in the wall behind the target and effectively settled the matter. Aramis had no choice but to hand over his stallion to a smirking Garnon.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan apologised to his friend. "They say he is going to put the horse up for public auction so he can further shame us. Maybe we can buy it back?"

"Perhaps," Aramis did not look confident. He himself had acquired the stallion as an extremely wild and unpromising youngster and schooled it with love and care into a fine beast. It would fetch a high price at auction. He patted d'Artagnan's shoulder kindly. "Never mind, you did your best. It was my own folly that I decided to bet."

Still d'Artagnan felt wretched. Aramis had put his faith in him and he had disappointed. Plus he could not help but notice the lingering doubt in the eyes of his fellow musketeers, as they clearly realised that if he could fail here on the practice ground, then perhaps one day he might fail them when it counted.

Taking refuge in the stables he leant up against the comforting flank of his mare and seriously wondered if perhaps he was getting in over his head given that he had only been a true musketeer for a single day. Picking up a brush he began to work out the tangles in her mane, an activity he had always found soothing.

Unfortunately, he rather forgot about the wound in his side and stretching up to comb behind her ears he rather over reached himself.

"Ouch."

"Is your side bothering you?" Treville's voice asked.

D'Artagnan froze. He knew he could lie. Invent some minor injury picked up whilst shooting. But his sense of honour would not allow him to lie to the Captain on his own behalf. And Treville would most likely insist the hurt was tended to and then Aramis's handiwork would be discovered and they would all be in trouble.

"No, sir," He looked Treville in the eye. "It's not bothering me at all."

He tried not to hold his breath. He knew he was taking a risk. He was stiff and a little bit sore but nothing in his mind that would _actually _interfere in the performance of his duties.

Treville regarded him steadily looking for any sign of weakness. His admiration for Athos's abilities as a leader had always been high. But it was increasing ten fold as he realised what a handful the young Gascon could be. He had chosen his ground well, as long as there was actual impediment the Captain was not required to punish him.

He always prided himself on encouraging initiative

"Good to know."

D'Artagnan looked visibly relieved. Treville made a mental note to get Athos to explain the concept of 'impassive' to him. However, he knew he would be doing the boy no favours if he continued to let his behaviour go completely unchecked.

"I told Aramis that I would bid for his stallion at the auction. The regiment is always in need of good horses and thanks to you he is in need of a mount."

D'Artagnan felt his guilt about that abate slightly. But then Treville stepped closer.

"The situation would not be so easily rectified if your error had cost him his _life._"

By the time Treville had finished with him d'Artagnan had a new appreciation of the Captain's extensive vocabulary, as well as several hours of extra duties to look forward to. D'Artagnan could cope with the drudgery but his punishment would be noted and remarked upon and that blow to his pride would be worst of all.

_Almost_

"Athos is going to kill me, he's only been gone a day and already I'm in trouble," He told his horse as he reached under to unbuckle her girth. For a moment he missed Athos so fiercely that tears stung behind his eyes and he was glad no-one could see him. "This isn't at all the way I wanted to begin but I have to keep going. I have to make him proud."

Straightening up he braced himself to remove the heavy saddle. Just because he wouldn't let the wound stop him didn't mean it didn't _hurt_. Taking its weight he needed a second to breathe through the pain. So, that he had his eyes closed and his arms full when he felt a hand press over his mouth and nose.

"Hello, little Gascon," Garnon hissed in his ear.


	7. Chapter 7

This one is particularly for SubRosa 7 who wanted to know what happened to Porthos and Maleshka who was missing Athos, also there is a slight nod to the amazing Les Miserables!

* * *

D'Artagnan felt tired and sore as he dragged himself out of bed the next morning. Deciding they already smelt of horse he pulled on yesterday's shirt and breeches before heading to the stables to help Jacques as part of the extra duties Treville had assigned. He spent an uncomfortable hour mucking out and filling water buckets whilst trying to ignore the curious looks and occasional jokes at his expense from his fellow musketeers. He was just finishing up as a shadow fell across the door and, to his shame, his heart skipped a beat.

"You my friend have been spending far too much time in the stables," Aramis' voice cheerfully announced, as he entered, carrying several packages, with Porthos on his heels. "You smell like a horse."

"What he means is, we heard what happened with Treville last night," Porthos eyed him something like admiration. "And I thought I liked to live dangerously."

"I was careless," d'Artagnan admitted. "And then I was lucky."

"That was not luck, my friend. I would argue that you made particularly good use of your wits," Aramis approved, with a firm squeeze to his shoulder, before holding his gaze and speaking with quiet sincerity. "Athos will be proud."

D'Artagnan felt the warmth of that all the way to his boots.

"Don't encourage him," Porthos protested. "Things could easily have gone bad. If he gets a whipping it will go harder on Athos than anyone. And I for one could go to my grave without ever putting _that_ look on his face again."

"Athos does have a tendency to take the weight of the world on his shoulders," Aramis made a face. Seeing his friends hurt, when he felt he should have prevented it, was a particular kind of torture to the man. "Given the love we bear him, we try to spare him pain where we can."

"What look?" D'Artagan was curious.

"Long story," Porthos abruptly looked away.

"He wants to tell you. He just needs time to work up to it," Aramis observed quietly, before pointedly changing the subject as he thrust the packages at d'Artagnan. "Ah, I almost forgot. Jeanette sends her compliments."

Unwrapping, the bundles d'Artagnan lifted out the three shirts he had ordered, only to find that they were carefully embellished with touches of lace well beyond his budget. Not to mention there was also a new pair of breeches, cut from the softest leather and a new blue and tan leather doublet that he definitely had not purchased.

"How?" He managed.

"Think of it as a welcome to the regiment. Plus we wanted to make some amends for yesterday," Aramis looked slightly shame faced. Looking at the younger man's stunned expression he worried that the items were not to the Gascon's taste. "We can alter anything you wish?"

"No," d'Artagnan swallowed hard, he felt utterly blessed to have such friends. "They are perfect. Thank you so much."

D'Artagnan could not help smiling as he made his way back upstairs. Stripping off his shirt he had a quick wash in cold water absently drying off his neck and shoulders as he wandered over to the wooden chest provided for his belongings to put away his new clothes and change for morning muster.

Only to step back in dismay at what he saw.

It was true he had not owned a great deal to begin with. But now every single shirt and pair of breeches had been deliberately soiled. Making a face against the stench he dug right to the bottom hoping to find something that might be salvaged but there was nothing. Stepping back, he ran a hand through his hair as he tried to think. Even the soft blue Musketeer cloak that Athos had bought for him was marked and stained.

_Athos_.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes as he remembered the first time he had been injured seriously enough to need needlework. He didn't remember who they had been fighting or even exactly where they were. What had been seared into his memory was the look on Athos face when he realised he was injured.

"_D'Artagnan!"_

_Athos was staring at him from the far side of the river. He followed his friend's gaze, looking down at his thigh in surprise as he saw the cut in his breeches and dark red blood trickling down his leg. In the heat of the fight he had not even felt it. Now all at once he felt sick and a little light headed._

"_S'alright, we got you."_

_Suddenly Porthos was beside him, taking his arm in a firm grip and steering him over to a small clearing, sitting him up against a tree. Aramis was kneeling in the dirt beside him and Athos was at his shoulder. _

"_I need to get a better look at the wound," Aramis decided. "Either I can cut these off you or if we help you out of them, there's a good chance they can be patched."_

_D'Artagnan gave his friend a grateful look at the unspoken acknowledgement that his farm did not provide a great income. Patched breeches were better than no breeches at all._

"_I'd rather you didn't cut them," He made a face. "But I'm not sure how I am going to .."_

"_Let us do the work." Aramis spoke kindly._

_It was swiftly done. With fingers made only slightly awkward by the situation D'Artagnan undid his laces, Aramis removed his boots, Athos put his hands under his arms and lifted him up slightly as Porthos grasped the cuff of each leg and pulled them off in one almighty heave. _

"_Ah!"_

_Despite their speed and care D'Artagnan could not help the hiss of pain that escaped past his clenched jaw at the movement. _

"_Easy."_

_Athos' hand shifted to the nape of his neck, in a gesture of such instinctive comfort that D'Artagnan was, for a moment utterly undone._

"_This is going to require needlework." Aramis looked past him at Athos. "It's not too bad. But it can't wait."_

"_I'll get your sewing kit." Porthos rose_

"_D'Artagnan, you understand I'm going to need to stitch this?"_

_D'Artagnan felt a surge of panic. He remembered when Aramis had stitched up Porthos. He had barely been able to watch. But he also knew Aramis wouldn't suggest it unless it was absolutely necessary. So he made himself swallow his fear and school his expression to one of acceptance._

"_It's alright, I trust you." He gave a brave smile. _

"_Stitching always looks much worse than it is," Aramis patted his leg gently. "But you will need to keep still. Do you want Athos to punch you? Or shall we just have him hold you?"_

_D'Artagnan swiftly ducked his head as he felt his face redden. Thanks to his new friends he had not been lonely since his arrival in Paris. But he did yearn for the simple comfort of human contact. Constance seemed out of his reach. The gentle cuffs, pats and punches that were Musketeer for affection were all well and good. But no-one had actually held him since his father's passing. _

"_Its fine," His pride would not allow him to presume. He could do this. "I'll keep still."_

"_Athos it is then," Aramis had cheerfully ignored him._

D'Artagnan never felt a single one of Aramis, neat, careful stitches, so focused had he been on the way Athos had simply, wrapped his arms carefully around him, relishing his warmth and strength as he pulled him so tightly against his chest that D'Artagnan could feel the reassuring thump of his beating heart.

Looking back D'Artagnan realised that his need must have been all too apparent to his friends. And Athos had not hesitated to hold him close and murmur the reassurance he had craved in his ear. Part of d'Artagnan was proud of the fact that he could help chip away at the walls built around his friend's heart.

The other part wondered what it cost Athos every time he had to face how much he needed other people in his life.

The spoiling of his possessions might just a prank for the new recruit. Although, it was a particularly cruel one given that the fact he had recently lost everything at the hands of LaBarge was well known. But if it was Garnon's doing Athos would find a way to blame himself.

_Given the love we bear him, we try to spare him pain where we can._

Decision made d'Artagnan closed the chest, swiftly dressed in the clothes that Aramis and Porthos had bought him, went downstairs, and said nothing at all about his unpleasant discovery.

They were supposed to be practicing their sword play. But then the skies opened and the rain came down relentlessly. They kept at it for a while longer first to show willing and then for the fun of it, laughing at each other's antics as they strove to see which of them could land the others most times in the mud.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked with a slight frown, as he offered d'Artagnan a hand up, after he had fallen with a particularly loud yelp.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan assured him, trying to maintain a little dignity as he adjusted his shirt as it stuck in wet patches to his skin. "You do realise this shirt was new?"

"You don't look fine," Armais didn't let it go. He cast a concerned look at Porthos. "Does he look fine to you?"

"Now you mention it, he is looking a bit peaky," Porthos agreed. "Maybe, he's sickening for something?"

"He is right here and he is perfectly fine," d'Artagnan reminded them.

"Are you quite sure?" Aramis' expression took on a mischievous look. "Because if you were feeling under the weather, which today is too foul for either man or beast, we would be obliged to fortify you with good, wine, wholesome victuals and sufficient repose until you were fully restored to health."

Together they rounded up a platter of bread and meat and a couple of bottles of wine and then retreated to a quiet corner to talk and clean their weapons so that they would at least appear to be busy if anyone passed too near. At first they spoke of nothing much, or rather d'Artagnan and Athos conversed. Porthos was unusually silent.

"He won't judge. You know that." Aramis said at last.

"It's just .. it ain't an easy thing to talk about."

"Is this about Garnon?" d'Artagnan paid attention.

After a moment of silent communication Porthos nodded his assent and Aramis sighed as he prepared to ease his friend's burden by beginning the tale.

"Athos and I were away with Treville guarding the King at the time. Garnon would never have dared such a thing if any of us had been closer to hand. He had recently lost few men to injury so Porthos and some others had been assigned to his command. Somehow he discovered that Porthos was born and raised in the Court of Miracles." Aramis paused. "It offended his _noble_ sensibilities."

"He treated me like scum," Porthos spoke up. "It started off with little things. He would spit in my food when no-one was looking. Keep me on guard duty until my bladder was fit to burst. Have me watching the horses instead of the things I was trained to do."

Porthos paused, as if gathering his strength.

"One day he left me guarding an empty camp. One of the village kids fell underneath a cart. He was in agony but no one could lift it off him. I went and lent a hand. Garnon said I had deserted my post. It didn't help matters all that much when I punched him."

"He had you whipped?" d'Artagnan swallowed hard.

"He meant to. He had me tied to a tree and left me there overnight so I could think about what was coming to me."

"Thank the good Lord one of the other men sent word and we returned in time to put a halt to the proceedings," Aramis added. "Treville is a soldier to his bones but he saw the honour in what Porthos had done. Imagine how we felt when we realised we had arrived too late to stop Garnon giving Porthos a _little _souvenir."

D'Artagnan knew from the unaccustomed look of malevolence in Aramis' eyes that this was going to be bad.

"He used his signet ring to burn his family crest into my arm. Said it was to teach me my place. When Athos saw the brand ..," Porthos swallowed hard against the tears that threatened at the memory of the look on his friend's face. "He cut the ropes binding me to the tree and then pulled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me like he would never let me go."

A rueful grin broke through his anguish at that memory

"It was like a proper hug."

"Athos?" D'Artagnan blinked. "Athos _hugged_ you?"

The man showed his affection in many ways but such unguarded demonstrativeness was not his way even with his friends. D'Artagnan could only imagine the maelstrom of emotions that had led to such an uncharacteristic action.

"First chance I got I cut the brand out," Porthos stripped off his large gauntlet to show the ragged round scar somewhat larger than a coin. "None of us could bear it and Athos still gets this funny look in his eyes whenever he catches sight of the scar."

"As long as Garnon remains a musketeer, Athos will never know peace," Aramis spoke bitterly. "And we will all forever be looking over our shoulders."

"D'Artagnan!" Treville's voice echoed across the Garrison. "My office now."

"What did you do now little D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked a hint of concern under the mocking.

"Nothing," D'Artagnan's expression twisted. "I hope."

"It's a simple errand," Treville eyed him as he stood to attention in front of his desk. "Take the letters. Deliver then to no one but the Duke of Bourbon's envoy. The monks will give you hospitality overnight. You return in the morning."

"Yes sir." D'Artagnan nodded fervently. "I won't let you down."

"And d'Artagnan?" Treville eyed the wet, bedraggled, mud covered, figure in front of him. "Mademoiselle du Bois delivered several more packages for you this morning. I trust this means you can at least _try_ to look like a King's musketeer?"

* * *

AN – For those wondering what happened between Garnon and D'Artagnan I beg your patience. All will be revealed in time!


	8. Chapter 8

AN – So Athos returns for _everyone_ who told me they were missing him! And there's a hint of what happened with Garnon for the less patient. Three more chapters after this. Hope you enjoy the ride.

Afterwards, d'Artagnan would argue it was _not_ his fault that the rain did not relent so that the road grew increasingly treacherous. Forced to travel along at no more than a slot trot, he was cold and wet and the sun had already begun to set by the time he finally arrived at his destination. It was with a great sense of relief that he passed his horse off to the stable hand and went to announce his arrival.

Only to find they were not expecting him or the Duke's envoy.

The kindness of the Prior only increased d'Artagnon's sense of frustration that he had somehow managed to miss his way. Aramis would later point out where the instructions provided by Treville had been altered by Garnon's careful hand. Thankfully, the monks were able to set him on the right path but as D'Artagnan rode off again into the miserable night he knew that the delay would be taken as a deliberate slight to the Duke.

"D'Artagnan!" Jacques greeted him as he rode into the courtyard late the following afternoon. "Where have you been until now? Treville expected you hours ago and Aramis and Porthos have been beside themselves with worry that something had befallen you."

"It's a long story." D'Artagnan wearily dismounted.

He had hoped that recounting his woes to his friends might provide some comfort. That perhaps they would laugh at his foolishness and then regale him with tales of similar misfortunes.

"You got _lost_?" Porthos wasn't laughing.

"How are we going to explain this to Treville?" Aramis actually looked worried. "Please say the letters were safely delivered? And his Grace's envoy accepted your humble apology?"

"I delivered the letters," d'Artagnan hedged. "And he accepted my apology."

"What are you _not_ saying?" Aramis sounded uncannily like Athos.

"You have to understand, I had already been on the road for hours. It was pitch dark when I arrived and no one came out to greet me. I had not stopped once along the way and both my horse were exhausted. I was cold and wet and everything was going wrong. I just wanted to find someone to take care of her as quickly as possible, so there was no further delay to offend the Duke."

"And?" Porthos prompted.

"I went into the stables and found a man there tending a horse. He did not answer when I called to him so I may have lost my temper and … shouted a bit." D'Artagnan could barely look at his friends. "Apparently his horse had fallen lame that afternoon and he had wanted to check on its welfare. He was wearing a long black cloak. How was I supposed to know?"

"You mistook the Duke of Bourbon's envoy, for a stable hand?" Aramis wanted to be clear.

"You know we like it that you're a bit mouthy. Means you can stick up for yourself, but when you are wearing this," Porthos tapped at the pauldron on his shoulder. "You gotta think before you speak."

Treville was predictably furious. _Nothing_ excused a man under his command losing his temper simply because he could not control his frustration. And he made sure that d'Artagnan was left in no doubt about that, loudly and at length. It was only the fact that the envoy was a reasonable man, who had sons of his own, which had prevented the matter coming to the notice of the King and Cardinal.

The Captain knew it could have been so much worse. The envoy's letter had acknowledged the folly an over- zealous young men, not unlike his own offspring, might fall into and noted the sincerity of D'Artagnan's apology. It also had not hurt that he had a good deal of respect for Treville and therefore was content to let him handle the matter. However, It was time to knock a few corners off the proud and impetuous youth.

"Clearly you need learn some self-control," Treville nodded to a space beside his desk. "Stand there, until, I chose to dismiss you."

D'Artagnan had no idea exactly how long he had been standing at attention. Long enough that he was beyond bored and his muscles were beginning to stiffen, he was also utterly mortified. It seemed like everyone in the regiment passed through Treville's office at some point and they all seemed to know exactly why he was there. A few gave him encouraging grins when Treville wasn't looking but most cast him disapproving looks for bringing the regiment into disrepute.

He had not thought he could feel any worse, until Athos walked through the door.

"You're a day early," Treville greeted him, pushing back a little from the desk to look his Lieutenant up and down as if assuring himself he was whole. "Should I be worried?"

"For once things went well," Athos allowed. "Progress was made. I have the papers for the King to sign."

"Good," Treville took the documents that Athos extracted from his jacket and swiftly read through them. He tilted his head on one side in pleased surprise. "How did you get them to concede the custom duties?"

"I was very persuasive." Athos deadpanned.

Treville smiled fondly. He knew Athos had little taste for these diplomatic missions. But he had a brilliant mind and never failed to exceed any expectations Treville placed upon him.

"That's good work," He praised warmly. "The King will be pleased."

To d'Artagnan it was a particular kind of torture. His heart had leapt in his chest when Athos had entered, overjoyed to see his friend safely back but dreading his disapproval. He knew Athos could not have failed to see him standing there but so far he had not so much as glanced in his direction.

"I need to step out for a moment," Treville decided. "I might be some time."

As soon as the Captain disappeared from view D'Artagnan started forward, only to be halted by the smallest tilt of Athos head.

"Treville did not dismiss you."

D'Artagnan paused as he realised the unwelcome truth of that. Stepping back he drew himself up to attention once more. He thought he saw a flicker of approval in Athos' eyes.

"Did you insult the envoy?" Athos offered him fair hearing.

D'Artagnan thought of all the things he could say, all of the circumstances which had brought him to this place. But there really was no excuse for allowing his temper to overrule his usual good manners. His father would have rightly taken him to task if he lived. There really was only one thing he could say.

"Yes," He admitted miserably.

"Then Treville was right to discipline you and there is nothing more to be said." Athos turned on his heel as if to walk away, but then wheeled back as if drawn to D'Artagnan by some invisible force. "When Aramis told me what happened, I thought to find you dismissed, or imprisoned awaiting execution. Because you let your heart rule your head once again. What did I tell you? I thought you had made progress but it seems I was wrong."

"I apologised to the envoy and to Treville," D'Artagnan was stung. "What more can I do?"

"An apology won't help matters when you when you are swinging at the end of a rope because you_ cannot _control your temper." Athos pointed out.

"Oh please," D'Artagnan protested. "You didn't rebuke Porthos over his fury at Bonnaire, or Aramis, when he lied to you about Marsec, or spirited away baby Henri. And the way I heard it you almost impaled the Duke of Savoy at the foot of the King's dais. Why must it be different for me?"

"Because, you still do not understand that if you put yourself in danger, we will follow without question and if we must die for your sake than I expect it to be for something _worth _dying for," Athos stepped up, getting right into his face. "Not just because you got a little cold and wet."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes and sucked in a long shuddering breath as he felt the truth of that hit him like a punch to the gut. When he opened his eyes again Athos had left.

Treville had intended to keep D'Artagnan on punishment until the change of watch. But as he returned bearing enough victuals for the three of them to find only the boy remaining one look at his stricken expression told him that it was time for a different kind of leadership. Ordering the younger man to take a seat, he poured them both a glass of wine and nudged the platter of food a little closer to the Gascon.

"You missed lunch."

"Thank you."

Out of politeness d'Artagnan picked at the bread a little. But he had no real appetite.

"You know I advised Athos against taking on your training himself," Treville observed. "I said he was too close to you and there were other good men who would suffice. Athos would not have it. But he is trying to be both friend and leader to you. That's no easy task and you're not making it any easier."

"Well, now I feel s_o_ much better," d'Artagnan scoffed lightly before realising exactly who he was talking to and belatedly adding. "Um, sir."

"My point in a nutshell, I think" Treville said dryly. "Athos' own father was a difficult man, indulgent to his younger son but overly stern and demanding of his heir."

"You knew Athos' father?" d'Artagnan was intrigued.

"He was often at court. I never warmed to him." Treville's expression was grim as he took a drink. "Athos was a lot like you. He became the man he is despite the lessons his father dispensed rather than because of him. Athos only wants what is best for you. Did you know he argued for your right to be the musketeer's champion even after I had announced by decision?"

"He never told me," d'Artagnan sighed. He should not be surprised. Athos had been his most stalwart supporter. Doing everything he could to help him realise his dream of becoming a musketeer. "He might regret that now."

"Don't be too hard on him," Treville counselled. "The love he bears for you is no less, than your love for him, for all he finds it harder to express."

Bolstered by Treville's words d'Artagnan gathered him courage and went in search of Athos. He found him in the courtyard sitting between Aramis and Porthos who were watching him pick at his food with ill concerned concern. D'Artagnan felt a pang of sympathy that his friend had no more appetite than he did.

"_Athos_." He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

Thankfully Athos could see everything in the raw anguish of his expression that he could not find the words to express. In truth the older man was already regretting the harshness of his words. He knew d'Artagnan felt things deeply and that the boy would take his disapproval to heart far more than seasoned soldiers like Aramis or Porthos ever would.

"Have you practiced today?" He asked mildly.

"Um, no," d'Artagnan recognised the olive branch for what it was. He thought back to his day riding back from the priory and then standing in Treville's office and managed a small self-depreciating grin. "I haven't really had time."

"Make time, always," Athos pushed his plate away. "Come on."

To an onlooker the brief grasp of his shoulder as Athos passed him might have seemed casual, almost without thought, but d'Artagan knew better and the simple gesture of reconciliation and forgiveness meant the world to him.

"D'Artagnan." Athos summoned him.

D'Artagnan always prided himself on the fact that Athos never went easy on him when they were sparring. The man was a master at pushing him to his limits and pulling out potential even he had not realised he had. Normally he relished the challenge and it would have mattered little that both men had spent hours in the saddle and eaten almost nothing. Fights did not always come when you were conveniently well fed and comfortably rested as they each knew from bitter experience.

"You're reactions are slow," Athos circled him with his sword. "Your focus is too easily distracted."

"No, I'm fine."

To prove his point d'Artganan stepped into a strong lunge, which Athos neatly sidestepped so that the young Gascon tripped and only just missed losing his footing entirely.

"That was careless," Athos frowned, lowering his sword. "Are you sick?"

"Only of losing." D'Artagnan gave a cocky grin.

It was a little dis-honourable but D'Artagnan had learnt, had been carefully taught, to take any advantage in a duel. So, he did not wait until Athos raised his sword to re-engage. For a full minute they exchanging blows and parries. Some of the men stopped to watch. Somewhere in the crowd d'Artagnan could hear Porthos voice and Aramis' occasional shouts of encouragement even as D'Artagnan realised, to his horror, that he was flagging.

The time between one breath and the next was all it took.

"D'Artagnan!"

The shout seemed too loud in his ears. There was the sudden tang of blood in the air, a strange wetness trickling down his arm and an odd, burning sting where he instinctively gripped his arm. Looking down he was stunned to see the blood trickling between his fingers and he swayed slightly.

"You cut me." He looked at Athos in confusion.

"My apologies," Athos stepped forward, extending a conciliatory hand. "Is it bad?"

D'Artagnan blinked as he tried to formulate a reply, swallowing down a wave of nausea as spots swirled in front of his eyes and the ground tilted beneath him.

"Whoa, steady."

Porthos strong hands landed on his shoulders, easing his down onto his knees just before he folded gracelessly and fell back senseless against his friend's broad chest.

"He's out cold," Porthos looked confused. "It's just a little cut."

"Let me see."

Aramis knelt down beside them. His careful hands grasped the rip in D'Artagnan's shirt and tore it wider open so he could better inspect the bleeding gash.

"How does it look?" Athos asked hollowly.

"Not nearly bad enough to send him insensible," Aramis sat back on his haunches as he looked up at Athos. "You pulled your sword fast enough to avoid any serious damage. It's quite shallow and not that long. A stitch or two will easily take care of it."

"This ain't your fault," Porthos was quick to reassure. "We all saw. He practically sleepwalked onto your blade. There was nothing you could have done."

"I knew he was moving sluggishly, not paying sufficient attention," Athos berated himself. "I should have stopped this."

"Athos," Porthos held his gaze. "Don't do this to yourself."

"I don't think this was of your doing," Aramis observed flatly, as he carefully pulled aside d'Artagnan's shirt so that Athos could see the bruise darkening on his arm. Moving over to loosen the fastening of his shirt he revealed further bruises marking the young Gascon's chest.

"Someone beat on him." Porthos' expression did not bode well for the culprit.

Exchanging a telling look with Athos, Aramis reached to peel back a sleeve and wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not when he saw the unblemished wrists and no evidence that the young Gascon had been restrained against his will. With a slight feeling of dread he picked up one of d'Artagnan's hands and peeled off the black leather glove to reveal bruised and swollen knuckles.

"It looks like he gave as good as he got at least," Aramis sighed as he looked down at their unconscious friend. "What else he has been keeping from us?"


	9. Chapter 9

The next thing d'Artagnan was aware of was lying on the comfort of a well stuffed mattress, covered in fresh linen. A feather pillow was placed beneath his head. Draped over him was the light weight of a woollen blanket which smelt faintly of lavender and felt impossibly soft where it brushed against his bare chest.

"So, you're awake then." Aramis spoke.

"I think so."

Blinking slightly d'Artagnan saw an unfamiliar ceiling. Sliding his eyes to the left he realised Aramis was sitting by the bed his brow furrowed, behind him stood Porthos looking unusually grave. Glancing around, d'Artangon took in a metal bed frame, a small desk and a window.

"Where am I?" He managed, as he carefully sat up, mindful of his freshly stitched arm and the bruises marking his torso.

"One of the garrison's guest rooms," Athos spoke up from where he was leaning against the wall on d'Artagnan's right. "We thought we should have this conversation in private."

"I imagine you have questions."

"Not particularly." Porthos surprised him.

"We already know quite a lot," Aramis' tone was not reassuring. "We know you were beaten because we saw the bruises. We know you weren't held against your will because there are no marks on your wrists. We know you fought back because your own knuckles are bruised and swollen. We know that part of the reason you swooned like a girl is that you haven't been eating properly because I can practically count all your ribs and we know that this all started a few days ago because of the colour of the bruises."

"Most likely around the time Garnon returned." Porthos agreed. "Imagine my surprise when I went to the laundry to fetch some clean linen to make up the bed and Marie told me all about trying to scrub the muck out of a cloak I know you've never had on your back."

"Or how I felt when I took off your jacket and found the directions Treville gave you for the rendezvous with the envoy in your pocket and discovered parts of it had been carefully altered." Aramis added.

"What we don't know is why you didn't tell us any of it," Porthos frowned. "We were right here."

"I couldn't." D'Artagnan bit his lip.

"You _couldn't_?" Porthos voice demanded a mix of pain and dis-belief in his tone. His face twisted with a look of betrayal. "After how I bared my soul to your Gascon pride is too precious to tell us about this?"

"Porthos, no." D'Artagnan desperately tried to think of some way to convince his friend it hadn't been like that. "Garnon had to believe none of you had any part of this or the plan wouldn't work."

"Plan?" Aramis frowned. "What plan?"

D'Artagnan stilled. He hadn't actually meant to admit to that part of things just yet but he had not been able to bear the idea of Porthos thinking he had taken his painful confidences so lightly.

"Porthos deserves justice and Athos' honour demands satisfaction. You yourself said we would always be looking over our shoulders as long as Garnon was a musketeer. I am sorry about your horse though."

"You said there was a plan." Porthos prompted.

"If I can convince Garnon I'm no threat to him he won't be able to resist another chance to humiliate me. He and I spar at the Garrison, just in practice, but we wager him that the loser has to resign his commission. He knows that if have to resign and return to Gascony Athos would lose everything he's invested in me."

"You dolt, Athos doesn't care a sous about the money." Porthos was still irritated.

"He doesn't mean the money." Athos murmured.

"So, when you win Garnon will be required to resign his commission and once he is no longer a musketeer, Athos will be free to settle the matter?" Aramis surmised, then frowned. "What does my horse have to do with it?"

"Garnon won't take the wager unless he thinks he will win. He had to believe that I'm not fit to be a musketeer. I really am sorry."

"So you _deliberately_ lost the contest? " For once words failed Aramis.

"And then you let him beat on you?" Porthos scowled. "And mess up all your stuff. Send you on a wild goose chase around the country?"

"What about the Duke's envoy?" Aramis raised a brow.

"No, there I really did lose my temper."

"Well, at least, you don't need to concern yourself about my horse," Aramis spoke lightly, but with that thread of dangerous underlying his tone which did not bode well for the recipient. "Treville has that matter in hand."

"But otherwise your week is about to get a whole lot worse." Porthos threatened.

"But it's good plan." D'Artagnan insisted in the face of his friend's disapproval. "It'll work, trust me."

"Like you trusted us?" Athos spoke quietly.

"Athos ..."

"I cannot believe you!" Athos exploded. D'Artagnan startled slightly, he had never seen him so openly furious. "Garnon is a vicious, sadist, dangerous, coward. You know he did to Porthos," Athos tugged at his shirt and jacket to show a vicious ragged scar on his chest that clearly went all the way through. "This is what he did to _me_. Yet you have deliberately put yourself in his way. And he _will _find a way to cut you down like an overgrown poppy."

"I wasn't planning on losing." D'Artagnan scowled.

"No one ever does! Skill with a sword means _nothing_ without judgement. I had thought you could be the greatest of us all. But you have not yet learnt what it truly means to be Musketeer. You are a _disappointment _to me."

In the silence after Athos had slammed the door so loudly that the whole room shook, the remaining three men looked at one another. D'Artagnan looked away as he felt his eyes stinging. He had been too easily moved to tears of late. He suspected it had much to do with the rawness of his father's passing, but being so at odds with Athos was more than he could bear.

"You go after Athos," Porthos murmured. "We'll follow on in a while when I've knocked some sense into 'im."

"Try not to cause any more injuries," Aramis raised a brow. "In the circumstances, Treville will most likely overlook the brawling. But someone still has to explain to him what has been going on."

Left alone with the kid Porthos felt the last of his anger melt away in the face of his obvious distress. D'Artagnan was utterly silent but he was steadfastly avoiding his gaze and Porthos saw a tell-tale drop as a single tear slid down his face to soak into the bedclothes. With a sigh, Porthos moved to sit with his back against the head of the bed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he settled him against his chest.

"There, there," He soothed gruffly. "It ain't the end of the world."

D'Artagnan took a shuddering breath and made a valiant effort to get himself under control.

"I just wanted to make him proud. Now he's never going to forgive me."

"He's already proud of you, you clot. You just have to stop tryin' so hard. And he'll come around when he's calmed down. Trouble with you two is you're too much alike. Need your heads bashing together."

"You really think we're alike?" d'Artaganan asked shyly.

That night at the Bastile he had scoffed at Athos' claim. He had been too raw to too take it seriously, still too angry at Labarge, too embarrassed at the fact that Athos had had to come to his rescue like a child and too ashamed that Athos had been right after all. He had let his heart rule his head and it had achieved nothing except nearly getting him killed. In his fury all he had thought of was Athos' reserve, his coldly analytical mind, and his infuriating logic.

Now he felt ashamed of having such scathing thoughts about a man who was also honourable, brave, kind and possessed of a level of patience d'Artagnan envied.

"Course I do," Porthos declared resolutely. "You're both idiots who are blind to the fact that it ain't a sin to let those who love you carry your burdens for a while."

"Athos doesn't love me."

He spoke without thinking only realising his mistake when Porthos went absolutely still.

"Why would you say that?"

"Forget I said it, I'm just tired. It's been a long week." D'Artagan hastily backtracked.

"Try again." Porthos insisted.

"Look, we're friends, good friends, but he obviously doesn't feel the same way about me and he does you and Aramis. I mean why should he? It's not like we've know each other all that long."

"You do talk a lot of rot," Porthos observed. "Love don't work like that."

"He didn't want to hug me," d'Artagnan protested. "When I got my commission Aramis met me with open arms, you held me so tight I thought I might crack a rib. But even after everything we had been through, Athos just offered me his hand."

"And here I thought those were happy tears."

"They were and I _was_ happy and I thought it was just _Athos. _That it was just his way. It didn't mean anything. But then you told me how he'd hugged you after Garnon and I started to wonder so I .."

"You asked Aramis." Porthos sighed.

"Yes,"

D'Artagnan had realised as soon as he asked the question that he had touched a nerve.

"_Has Athos ever hugged you?"_

"_I was wondering how long it would take you to ask," Aramis' tone had been light. But then he had put down his wine, avoided his gaze and stayed silent so long that d'Artagan had regretted asking. When it finally came his answer had been devoid of all emotion. "Once, after Savoy."_

"C'mon," Porthos reached with his free hand for d'Artagnan's shirt and jacket and thrust them into his hands. "Get dressed. Somewhere out there the man you think doesn't love you is trying to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle because you scared him half to death. So, we're going to start with you apologising to him."

"I don't know what to say to him."

"Athos knows every tavern in Paris. It's probably going to take us a while to find him. You'll have time to come up with something."

Aramis had started, without holding out much hope, at their usual haunts. Then he had moved steadily further and further out from the taverns they were known by name to the seedier parts of town where a man could drink anonymously, which meant that Athos was planning on drinking himself into a serious stupor. Aramis bit back a sigh as he finally spied Athos drinking steadily in a corner.

Procuring a cup on his way over Aramis did not wait to be invited before sitting down next to Athos and helping himself to his wine.

"I'm not in the mood for company," Athos glared at him.

"When has that ever stopped me?" Aramis settled back so that their shoulders and arms were touching. If he would allow it physical contact was one of the few things that could halt Athos' spiral into despair. He took it as a promising sign that his friend neither moved away nor punched him. Both of which had happened in the past. "We've missed you these past few days, young d'Artagnan most of all."

He felt Athos tense and wisely changed tack.

"How was Rouen?"

"Uneventful," Athos took a long drink. "My sword stayed in its scabbard and I haven't had to shoot anyone in days. I was bored beyond belief."

Aramis huffed out a small laugh at the wry comment. Athos might seem like the solitary type but he and Porthos had come to recognise how much their friend relied on their good humour to keep his darkness at bay. Things were always better when they were together.

"You were a little harsh with the boy." Aramis tried again.

"Would you rather have him _dead_?" Athos downed his wine in one.

"Of course not, none of us would," Aramis gave the other man an understanding glance. "But it will do no good to drive him away."

That got Athos' attention as he had known it must. His friend had grown to care deeply for the younger man. He would swear that Athos had seemed just a little lighter and smiled just a more frequently since d'Artagnan had joined their ranks.

"Treville had already said his piece today. Quite loudly I might add," Aramis winced at the memory. "Words, like reckless, idiot, a disgrace to the regiment, were banded about."

He saw Athos' hand tighten just fractionally on his cup. Aramis knew he would understand exactly how hard it would have been for the young Gascon, who was so eager to please, to face such censure, especially when it was true.

And rather than supporting his friend Athos had only added to that burden.

"How is he?" Athos managed.

"Crying on Porthos' shoulder when I left," Aramis was matter of fact.

Athos dropped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes in pain. He only wanted what was best for the boy but d'Artagnan was proud and stubborn and had an independence of spirit that was not easily quelled.

_And his inability to follow orders has already saved your life more than once._

"I know why you said what you did, my friend," Aramis spoke gently. "But the boy has not long lost his father. You have rightly taken him under your wing and he has thrived. Your affection and approval means the world to him. So, it is far too late now for you to try to barricade your heart. And he will never understand or forgive if you try."

"And if he dies?" Athos challenged. "What am I supposed to do then?"

"You could try having just a _little _faith." Aramis held his thumb and forefinger just a fraction apart. "In his ability to make you proud, in Porthos and I and our determination to keep him safe, and in yourself, my friend for being a better man than you will ever allow."

He paused.

"And if you think about it, although I would not condone his methods, having come this far, his plan does have something to recommend it."

"Then why did he not come to us?"

"Ah," Aramis looked a little shame faced. "It seems that might have something to do with Porthos and I. We told him what Garnon did to Porthos and how hard you took it. It seems d'Artagnan took our words to heart. He did not want you to feel responsible for a choice he made willingly for all our sakes."

"The boy thought he was protecting _me_?"

"What can I say?" Aramis nudged him. "If you will insist on being a man of honour and integrity, with such a good heart, you can hardly complain when your friends choose to look past your moods and drinking."

"Should I be flattered?" Athos asked dryly, but his eyes were soft.

"Look over there," Aramis directed his gaze. "If that's not love my friend, I don't know what is."

Two familiar figures were threading their way through the crowds. Porthos had his hand curled in the collar of d'Artagan's jacket as he towed him forward. As they came closer Athos saw that the boy's eyes were red rimmed and his shoulders slumped with a level of despondency Athos had only seen once, when the boy had learnt LaBarge had burned down his family farm and he had lost everything he previously held dear.

_Too late indeed_

"Go on, you clot," Porthos' voice carried clearly, as he gave d'Artagnan a little shove forward. "Everything will be alright."

Athos watched with quiet pride as d'Artagnan visibly gathered his courage and came to stand at the edge of the table. Raising his head he looked Athos in the eye.

"I'm sorry, I know I was wrong and I'm sorry. I never meant to disappoint you. I just want to make you proud."

"Actually," Athos looked sideways at Aramis and allowed his lips to quirk into a small smile. "It has been pointed out to me that your plan had its merits. It seems you may have brains after all."

"So," Aramis sat back in his chair to survey his friends. "Who's going to be the one to break the news to Treville about the plan?"

All four looked at each other for a second. Then three voices spoke.

"Athos."


	10. Chapter 10

AN –So I have pretty much finished writing this, so I should be able to get it all posted before I have to go back to work after the Easter holidays and I got a bit inspired so there will be about 15 chapters I think. Hope you continue to enjoy.

It took a few days to put everything in place. First of all, d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos waited down in the courtyard as Athos went to speak with Treville about their plan.

"I should be up there," d'Artagnan jumped up from where he had been sitting impatiently on the steps.

"Let Athos handle it," Aramis caught his arm, holding him in place. "He really is quite good at this sort of thing."

"And Treville loves him," Porthos added sagely. "He's been itching for a way to get back at Garnon for cheating like he did."

"I thought you said he didn't know about the duel?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"We said we had to keep it from him," Porthos tipped his head. "Not the same thing."

"Remind me to show you the difference between an entry wound and where the blade comes out. The scars are quite different," Aramis fixed him with a look. "Treville has always known somebody stabbed Athos in the back and even in error Porthos would never do such a thing."

Their patience was finally rewarded when Athos came down the stairs, his usually stoic expression replaced with a faint air of bemusement. As d'Artagnan jumped up, a look of anxiety painted across his features, Aramis and Porthos exchanged a knowing look, it was long past time that their Lieutenant recognised just how high he stood in Treville's favour.

"He wants to see you," Athos put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Don't concern yourself. I rather think he wants to congratulate you."

And so it turned out.

"Your method was flawed but I cannot fault your loyalty," Treville spoke conversationally, as he wondered over to his cupboard and poured two glasses of his very best brandy, returning to offer one to d'Artagnan before raising his glass in a toast, a smile on his lips "I cannot be seen to condone brawling in the ranks, but don't be surprised if the entire the regiment wishes to stand you a drink."

"Er, thank you?" d'Artagnan managed.

"Garnon will stop at nothing until he sees Athos destroyed, I have no intention of letting that happen," Treville advised him. "Any plan which can dispose of a coward like him and leave Athos in the regiment has my full support."

After that things moved swiftly. Porthos and Aramis and a few trusted comrades took turns sparring with Garnon under the guise of practice to learn every one of his tricks. D'Artagnan used the time to practice with Athos and recover his full strength. To no one's surprise Athos spent more time in his company than he did at the tavern, chiding him to eat more, reading to him from a selection of novels, and even tutoring him a little in those parts of education expected of a son of the nobility but denied to a simple Gascon farm boy.

As they expected Garnon's overblown pride could not resist the wager. The day dawned crisp and bright. As his friends helped him make ready d'Artagnon looked at each of them in turn.

"Give 'im hell." Porthos gripped his arm tightly.

"Try not to let him leave any scuffs on your new doublet." Aramis patted his shoulder.

"Remember, head not heart," Athos held his gaze. "And do try not to kill him. I am rather looking forward to doing that myself."

He held out his hand, palm down, and d'Artagnan's heart leap into his throat as he realised what was intended. Looking around at the face of his friends, he swallowed hard as he saw nothing but love and support. Slightly shyly, at this first time of doing this, he covered Athos' hand with his own, feeling a surge of belonging as Aramis was swift to add his hand to the pile and Porthos completed the circle.

"One for all." Athos intoned.

"And all for one." They all chorused.

The four of them walked out into the courtyard shoulder to shoulder, Aramis teasing d'Artagnan about the first outing for his new blue and tan leather doublet, Porthos whispering last minute advice in his ear under the guise of mussing the younger man's hair, Athos, a strong, steady presence by his side that served to ground and focus d'Artagnan even as Garnon took up his position.

"Gentlemen," Treville looked between the two would be combatants. "I charge you both to remember that you are King's musketeers. This contest is solely for the honour of his Majesty. First blood settles the matter."

"Remember," Athos caught d'Artagnan's arm as he moved forward. "It's _just_ practice."

"Of course," d'Artagnan nodded.

Athos cuffed the boy fondly. He had learnt the hard that look of wide eyed innocence was never to be taken at face value and usually meant trouble. But he dropped his hand allowing him to step forward, and trusting him to do his part. Even so, he watched Garnon carefully as d'Artagnan moved to face him.

From the first the fight was fast and furious. The plan was for d'Artagnan to defeat Garnon in full view of the regiment. Athos was confident that d'Artagnan would come to no actual harm with Treville watching every lunge and parry like a hawk, but with Garnon publically outclassed by the regiment's newest recruit he would have no choice but to honour the wager and resign his commission. And as soon as that pauldron was removed from Garnon's shoulder Athos was determined to see justice done.

D'Artagnan had always been a talented swordsman but under Athos' careful tuition he had flourished. Treville began to look increasingly satisfied as it became clear that Garnon was losing. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a gleeful look as they both started to think that the plan might just work. Athos watched full of pride as d'Artagnan fought with the same kind of judgement and skill that had led to him defeating LaBarge.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Garnon brought his blade down heavily. D'Artagnan twisted underneath it to block the move, gritting his teeth as the full force of the impact travelled all the way down his arm. All at once the assembled musketeers ceased their calls and encouragements to fall into a shocked silence even as d'Artagnan vaguely registered that the reassuring weight of his sword in his hand suddenly felt ridiculously light and the balance was all awry.

Looking down he realised he held only the stump of a sword, the tip of the blade having been sheared off by the force of Garnon's last blow to land forlornly in the mud a few feet away. For a split second d'Artagnan could only stare open mouthed at the ruined remains of his weapon. His mind flashing to the moment when his father had proudly presented it to him and its loss sliced through him as sharply as if Garnon had actually run him through.

"Hold!" Treville roared.

D'Artagnan swiftly glanced up at the Captain's warning shout, only to see Garnon had not halted his advance in the slightest and was still bearing down on him in deadly earnest. Dropping his useless sword pommel he swiftly reached for the main gauche in the small of his back, knowing even as he did that that he would be too late to block the blade already descending towards him with lethal intent. D'Artagnan closed his eyes against a wash of pain. Treville would be diminished by the loss of another man under his command. Porthos would shed a tear for their friendship, closer than blood. Aramis would offer kind words to console his mother and sisters even as his own heart was breaking.

And Athos would find a way to blame himself for the loss of another brother.

"_He said hold!_"

The clash of two blades came together so solidly that sparks flared up into the air. Mere inches from d'Artagnan's face Garnon's features twisted in an expression of complete rage. D'Artagnan blinked at the strip of metal right in front of his nose as he recognised the blade of Athos' sword protecting him from further onslaught.

Frustrated in his objective Garnon instantly schooled his features into an insincere expression of polite regret.

"My apologies, I was perhaps a little overzealous."

"He could have been hurt." Porthos spat.

"I could not have known his sword would shatter," Garnon dismissed the concern. "Although, I suppose some pig sticker of a blade is the best a Gascon farm boy can afford."

"That's enough!" Treville's voice cracked like a whip. "Garnon, whilst you remain in this regiment you will follow my orders, my office now!"

Garnon continued to glower at d'Artagnan and for a moment it looked like he might defy Treville in front of the entire regiment for a second time. However, perhaps remembering that Treville was higher in the King's favour that his father, on whom all his continued well-being relied, he reluctantly sloped off.

"Are you alright?" Aramis put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, feeling his worry rise as he felt the slight trembling under his hand. He swiftly steered the younger man over to one side and sat him down at the table. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan assured him, his distraught expression saying anything but. "There's not a scratch on me."

"You want to try that again?" Porthos rolled his eyes, even as he produced a bottle of wine from thin air and poured out four glasses. "Because you look like your dog died."

"Is he hurt?"

Athos appeared, his voice so rich with concern that d'Artagnan felt all his defences crumbling. How had this man come to mean so much to him in so short a time?

"He's not injured," Aramis reassured swiftly. "Just a little heart sick."

"That sword was a present from my father for my twenty first birthday," d'Artagnan managed feeling quite stunned as the enormity of its lost refused to sink in. "It cost far more than he could really afford at the time, with the farm doing so badly, but he was determined I should have a sword fit for a gentleman. I am only sorry it failed you all."

_That I failed you._

D'Artagnan hated the fact that his father had scrimped and saved to give him a sword he could be proud of it and yet it still couldn't begin to match the quality the Comte de Lyon could purchase for his son. He knew better than to think the blade could be mended. There would always be a weakness in the join and the risk that it would not hold when his, or worst his friends, lives depended on his skill, would be simply too great.

"That sword saw your way to securing a commission as a King's musketeer," Aramis reminded him kindly. "That is an honourable enough epitaph for any blade."

"D'Artagnan," Treville appeared. "Take your choice of any sword in the armoury. It's yours for as long as you need."

"Thank you, sir." d'Artagnan nodded.

It was a generous offer. A quality sword was a hugely costly expense and it would be some time before d'Artagnan could afford to purchase another for himself on his stipend.

"We could have a little word with Garnon?" Porthos suggested a predatory glint in his eye. "Persuade him to chip in for a new sword?"

"Much as I would like to see you try that," d'Artagnan glanced fondly at his friend. He had watched Porthos and Aramis idea of "persuading" others with awe and admiration. "I would rather not be beholden to that man in any way."

"C'mon then," Porthos clapped him on the back. "You look like you need a drink."

"Only if you're paying," d'Artagnon smiled. "I have a new sword to save up for, remember?"

In the end it was Aramis who paid, choosing the better red wine and the best beef stew with that day's fresh bread and plenty of all of it.

"How come we're celebrating?" Porthos was the first to raise it. "Garnon's still a musketeer. And with the Comte to hide behind even disobeying Treville won't get 'im more than a slap on the wrist."

"Which is why I refuse to sour my stomach any further, with bad wine and stale bread," Aramis reasoned. "And at least his disobedience might give Treville excuse enough to send him out of our sight."

"Or perhaps his father will finally decide he's not right for soldiering and marry him off to some rich eighty year old widow," Porthos joked, raising his glass in a toast. "May the lady make his life a living hell."

"There is another way." Athos reminded them both.

"Over my dead body." Porthos vowed at once.

"This has gone on long enough," Athos argued. "It's time to end it."

"What?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"Athos thinks that if he falls on his sword, so to speak, and resigns _his_ commission then he will be free to challenge Garnon," Aramis clarified. "Given the lengths Porthos and I went to four years ago to prevent him doing exactly that I cannot imagine why he thinks we would allow it now."

"One time Aramis punched him and another time I drugged his wine," Porthos grinned.

"_You_ punched him?" d'Artagnan grinned at Aramis.

"We tried not to be too predictable. He can be quite perceptive when he is not being a stubborn fool." Aramis tipped his hat at Athos. "Thankfully, when he awoke he took it for the sign of affection it was intended to be."

"Even Treville got in on the act," Porthos crowed. "Every time Athos tried to see him he was somehow unavailable, until he finally got the message we weren't about to let 'im go."

"Do you truly believe Garnon will just let this lie?" Athos remarked.

"Hey, I thought you said we were all in this together?" d'Artagnan gave him a lop sided smile.

"And you chose _now_ to start listening to me?" Athos gave a long suffering sigh.

"Monsieurs? My father asked me to bring this."

A boy of about twelve who d'Artagnan recognised as Jean-Paul, the son of the garrison's farrier appeared at their table carrying a bulky package wrapped in sackcloth. Porthos, who seemed to be expecting the lad gave him a handful of coins in return for the package.

"Maybe you can't fight with it," Porthos spoke kindly as he passed the bundle over to d'Artagnan. "But I know what it's like to lose stuff when you don't have that much. It can be something to remember your father by."

D'Artagnan held his breath as he carefully unwrapped the rough sacking to reveal his old sword. You could see the join where the two pieces had been carefully fused together. But he had already lost so much at the hands of La Barge and had so little else of his father's now the farm was gone that this meant the world to him.. That his friend would go to such trouble and expense on his behalf left him lost for words.

"Thank you." He smiled. "I'll treasure it always."

Warmed by good wine, rich food and the best of company, to his later shame, d'Artagnan put Garnon firmly out of his mind. The following morning he was further cheered by Treville's announcement that Garnon had agreed to return home to Lyon for a time whilst he considered his future.

"According to court gossip, the Comte de Lyon has been making enquiries in his circle to marry off his youngest son, if a match can be found, given a suitable dowry, of course." Treville allowed.

"So Porthos is become a prophet," Aramis smirked. "I suppose a man can never have too much wealth or too many descendants."

It took the arrival of the Comte de Lyon in Paris to forcibly remind d'Artagnan of Athos' warning that Garnon would not simply let this lie.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan muttered to Aramis, as the regiment were ordered to muster just before supper.

"Nothing good." Aramis looked troubled.

Treville came down the stairs from his office, followed by a man in court robes. He looked unusually tired and drawn.

"A signet ring which the musketeer Francois Garnon carried it to Paris to present to the King as a token of his father, the Comte de Lyon's, loyalty is missing. At the Comte's insistence I have agreed that his men may search the garrison. I am confident that the regiment has nothing to hide."

"That bloody ring again." Porthos seethed under his breath.

"Quite." Athos' tone was deadly.

"This means trouble." Aramis surmised.

"A ring's a small thing, light, easy to transport," Porthos murmured. "Exactly the sort of thing you could plant on someone if you wanted to blacken their name. No-one would ever know it was there unless they were looking for it."

"The only question is which one of us will be the guilty party this time." Aramis agreed.


	11. Chapter 11

AN – Thanks so much for all the feedback on this. The plot continues to thicken! Do let me know what you think!

D'Artagnan drew himself up a little straighter as he felt all of his friends eyes fall upon him. He forcibly pushed down the tendril of fear that curled around his stomach at the thought of being arrested and charged. He knew he was innocent and he also knew that his friends would stop at nothing to clear his name of it came to that.

They all watched as one of the Comte's men gave a triumphant shout and came running into the courtyard bearing something aloft in his right hand. A hurried and heated conference took place between the Comte and Treville. At last, Treville broke away and came towards d'Artagnan.

"I didn't, I wouldn't. On my honour I have never seen that ring before," D'Artagnan protested desperately, even though he had more than half expected it, the cold reality was chilling.

"I'm sorry," Treville looked genuinely regretful. "We will go straight to the King, but for now I have to let the Comte take you into his custody so that you can answer these charges."

"I understand," d'Artagnan heard his own voice as if from a long way off.

He stood quietly as his hands were bound, feeling Aramis to his left and Porthos on his right, practically quivering with suppressed rage. The similarly with their first meeting when they had been forced to watch Athos led away to prison did not escape him. He tried to be brave but as he felt his bonds being tested and holding firm he felt a surge of panic and wild eyed, sought out Athos.

Afterwards Athos was never quite sure what had most driven him to act, the stricken expression on the face of a young man whose only crime was his friendship with the three musketeers, or the self-satisfied smirk on Garnon's face as he watched the proceedings unfold. Whichever it was, he was striding across the courtyard, his sword clear of his scabbard and its point at Garnon's throat, forcing him to his knees, before anyone else could react.

"D'Artagnon is no thief," Athos asserted, holding his sword steady. "Confess it."

"What is the meaning of this?" The Comte blustered. "Treville control your men. The Gascon been caught red handed. He is both a thief and a liar."

"Your son is the liar and he will admit his guilt in the matter," Athos insisted, murder in his eyes, pressing his sword a little further into Garnon's exposed throat so a trickle of blood ran down his neck, staining his collar. "Or he will answer to me."

Ever the coward, Garnon quickly succumbed.

"I confess, I was one who placed the ring in d'Artangon's belongings," Garnon babbled, his eyes wide with fear at Athos' murderous fury. "I wanted to see him disgraced."

Withdrawing his sword slightly, Athos looked directly at the Comte.

"D'Artagnan may only be a Gascon farm boy, but he values honour above all else," Athos defended his friend. "He is no common thief."

"The boy knew nothing about the theft, my lord," Treville spoke up in his turn. "We all saw him. No one can lie that well."

"Perhaps he was merely surprised that to be caught," The Comte gave no ground. "As I understand it he recently lost everything when his family farm was razed to the ground. A ring like this would help to cover his losses."

"Your son confessed his fault." Athos insisted.

"With your sword at his throat, musketeer? No court in the land would accept such a testimony." The Comte de Lyon scoffed. "No, I will have my justice before the King. Bring the thief d'Artagnan, and we will settle this once and for all."

The ride to the palace was a grim affair. Porthos was preoccupied with his feelings of helplessness at watching d'Artagnan being guarded by the Comte's men. Aramis was not sure if he was more worried about d'Artagnan or Athos. The latter was coldly furious and Treville's concern for his men was being expressed through frustration.

"You had the son of the Comte de Lyon on his knees in the mud and publically called him a liar," He fumed. "If that has repercussions I won't be able to save you."

"He is a liar." Athos was utterly unmoved.

"And how will it help d'Artagnan if the Comte presses the matter and am I forced to revoke your commission?"

"The Comte has no grounds for complaint," Athos defended his actions. "I issued no challenge and Garnon came to no actual harm."

"You'd better hope the Comte sees it like that," Treville scowled as he dismounted. "He may not take kindly to his son being called to account by a mere musketeer."

The sun was setting by the time they finally gained audience with the King. Aramis supposed that they should at least be grateful for Louis' affection for Treville. It ensured they had equal hearing with the Comte, much good it seemed to be doing them.

"You have seen for yourself your Majesty, d'Artagnan is a fine young man, loyal to the regiment and to the crown. He is innocent of these accusations." Treville tried.

"You are mistaken in your good opinion of him," The Comte de Lyon refuted. "He was caught red handed with my signet ring in his belongings. There is no possibility of a miscarriage of justice."

"My lord, we should at least consider the fact that the ring could have been placed there to deliberately incriminate d'Artagnan?"

"That would require some sort of motive, Treville," The Comte reasoned. "Do you have any evidence that would support such an idea?"

"Yes, Treville do speak up." The King encouraged.

Treville hesitated. He could not speak of Garnon's cruelty to Porthos without admitting that _technically_ the musketeer had deserted his past. He could not raise the true circumstances of Athos' injury without admitting that his lieutenant also drew in contravention of the musketeer creed. He could not defend d'Artagnan because the young man had had too much pride to report his harassment at Garnon's hands when he should have done so.

"Not at this time, Your Majesty." Treville admitted reluctantly.

"Very well," Louis nodded. "Then you may have some time, Treville. D'Artagnan, you seemed to me to be a worthy fellow. So I will not condemn you without a fair hearing. But mark this I also have an obligation to hear the complaints of the Comte. We will decide the matter tomorrow."

"Right now we've got less than nothin'" Porthos muttered sourly. "How is that going to change between today and tomorrow?"

It was a testament to how attuned these men were to each other that Athos only had to shift his weight slightly to attract the attention of his fellow musketeers.

"Athos, please say you ain't about to do anything rash." Porthos worried.

"Or suicidal?" Aramis added out of the side of his mouth.

"And here I thought you both liked living dangerously," Athos kept a straight face. "Should we discuss the shooting and the punching or shall I just move straight onto the women and the gambling?"

"Well, if you put it like that." Aramis shrugged.

"Just be careful, alright?" Porthos spoke up. "It would be a devil to get blood out of this floor."

"It's probably antique. Past time they replaced it with something new," Athos gave a rare smile before he stepped forward. "Your Majesty, may I approach? I believe I may be able to provide a solution to the matter."

"This is most irregular," the Comte de Lyon blustered. "Shall we listen to the servant's gossip next?"

Treville hid his smile as Louis stiffened slightly at the implied insult that his regiment of musketeers were little better than servants. The King might have his flaws but honour was very important to him. Although, even Treville was a little surprised at what happened next.

"Athos, isn't it?" Louis recognised him. "Yes, you were the musketeer who did such an excellent job of persuading the Duke of Savoy to sign our treaty. You may approach us."

Athos came forward and bowed.

"Your Majesty, d'Artagnan's involvement in this matter stems solely from his relationship to me. I sponsored his recruitment to the regiment and supervised his training. His disgrace would be my dishonour. Regrettably, there is a history of enmity between the Comte's son, the musketeer Garnon, and myself. D'Artagnan is merely the innocent victim of that."

"Very noble, I am sure," The Comte scoffed. "I presume you have some proof of this?"

"Rather I was going to propose that your son and I might settle the matter between us like gentlemen."

"Athos." Treville frowned.

"What presumptuous folly is this?" The Comte dismissed the very idea. "Do you seriously think I will allow my son, to accept the challenge of a lowly musketeer, so you can cut him down in the street like a dog?"

"Perhaps I should introduce myself?" Athos spoke mildly. "I am Oliver de Athos, Comte de la Fere." Athos gave a stiff little bow that was more insult than courtesy. "At your service."

"This is some kind of a trick, your majesty," the Comte de Lyon blustered. "That name has not been heard of these five years. The Comte de la Fere is dead."

"I assure you I am not." Athos was implacable.

"I can vouch for his identity, Your Majesty," Treville stepped forward. "I knew his father well."

"I can't say I can recall the man," Louis frowned.

"Dead men pay no taxes, Your Majesty. Your exchequer will be able to confirm my returns from those lands." Athos looked at the Comte de Lyon. "You also knew my father and we met several times when I was younger."

"As God is my witness, it is you." The Comte exclaimed in surprise.

"Well, what say you, musketeer?" For the first time Louis looked at Garnon. "Will you accept his challenge?"

"With regret, Your Majesty I cannot," Garnon gave an insincere smile. "If you recall Captain Treville forbids duelling between the regiment. He feels it shows disloyalty."

"Of course, quite right," Louis nodded. "Well, in that case, we shall just have to entrust d'Artagnan's fate to the law. I am sure that if he is truly innocence he will have nothing to fear."

Athos face was a study in torment as he watched the Comte's men prepare to take d'Artagnan away. The boy would not do at all well in prison. And Athos had little confidence that even their most earnest efforts to clear his name would stand up against the influence of the Comte. D'Artagnan was sure to hang. He was determined that no-one else should suffer for his faults and especially not d'Artagnan.

Very deliberately his left hand reached up and began to unbuckle the pauldron from his shoulder.

"Your Magesty, with regret .."

"Athos, no!"

Using the element of surprise, d'Artagnan broke free of the men guarding him and raced to stand in front of his friend and mentor. Around them the small crowd gasped, Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look of concern and Treville actually took a step forward. But the King raised his hand keeping them all in place, his eyes on the two musketeers.

"Athos, you don't have to do this." D'Artagnan pleaded.

"I will not see you hang for my sake."

"Then we'll find another way," D'Artagnan urgently assured him. Then he gave a lop sided smile. "Head over heart, remember?"

For an instant Athos expression softened and d'Artagnon felt a surge of hope. But then Athos shook his head and put a hand gently on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Sometimes the price is worth paying. You were born to be a musketeer. It's a better legacy than I could have hoped for."

Bound as he was d'Artagnan could not grasp the front of Athos' jacket and shake some sense into him as he wanted. Seeing that the musketeer was entirely determined on resigning his commission he did the only thing he could think of. He fell to his knees and looked up at the man he most admired with love and tears shining in his eyes.

"If you do this I will follow. I would rather stand shoulder to shoulder with you in the worst of circumstances than serve as a musketeer without you at my side."

"And me." Porthos vowed quietly.

"And I," Aramis added. "You should know by now you can't get rid of us that easily."

Athos blinked hard, his own eyes wet with tears as he reached out and put a hand in d'Artagnan's hair as if in benediction. Tipping back his head a little as he looked towards the ceiling as if searching for divine inspiration, then he moved his hand to grip d'Artagnan's arm and pull him to his feet, leaving the half unbuckled pauldon in place.

"I believe I have heard enough," The King decided. "All charges against the musketeer d'Artagnan are dismissed."

"Your Majesty?" The Comte de Lyon baulked.

"Once again we have witnessed d'Artagnan acting with great honour and loyalty," The King announced. "These are not the actions of a common criminal. Treville has the truth of it. Someone obviously planted the ring to incriminate him. Since your men conducted the search perhaps you should look to your own household, Monsieur Le Comte?"

"As you command, Your Majesty." The Comte bowed low, glaring daggers at his son at being so publically humiliated. "Let there be no record of my complaint. Clearly, the musketeer d'Artagnan was wrongly accused."

"A moment of your time, Captain," The King held Treville back as the assembled company were dismissed. "Athos clearly inspires great loyalty in his men."

"He is the greatest soldier in the regiment your majesty," Treville agreed. "He would be a fine choice to take my place when the time comes."

"Not for many years, I hope Captain," Louis paused. "He was prepared to resign his commission to resolve this matter with Garnon and his fellows likewise. That would be a great loss to France."

"It would indeed, Your Majesty." Treville cleared his throat. "I do have another solution."

Unaware of the conversation between their Captain and the King, the four musketeers headed back into the city. Feeling impossibly weary after his ordeal d'Artagnan presumed they were heading to the tavern to celebrate. Not wanting to disappoint his friends he let his horse follow on, as he allowed his mind to drift, only to come to with a start.

"What?"

"I asked if you needed a hand?" Athos enquired.

As D'Artagnan looked around he was surprised to see that his friends had all dismounted and were looking at him with concern. He was equally startled to realise that they were in the courtyard at the garrison.

"No, I can manage."

Taking a moment to centre himself d'Artagnan wearily heaved himself out of the saddle and landed on slightly shaky legs.

"Looks like its past somebody's bedtime," Porthos sounded amused.

D'Artagnan had never been more grateful for his friends' kindness. Athos had a firm grip in the back of his jacket to keep him upright as they steered him upstairs. Instinctively knowing that he wasn't ready to face people just yet they led him back to the guest room rather than his bed in the barrack room. Porthos brought him a copper of hot water to wash in. Aramis fetched him a bilious nightshirt made of the finest linen fit for a Duke.

"It was a gift." He offered in response to Athos' raised eyebrow.

Settling in-between freshly laundered sheets and a pile of soft blankets, d'Artagnan felt the last of his energy ebbing away as he sank into the feeling of safety and security. He managed only a few mouthfuls of the rich beef stew Athos brought for him before his eyelids began to droop and the bowl was swiftly rescued from his suddenly lifeless hands as he surrendered to sleep.

He awoke to thin moonlight streaming through the window and the feeling of being surrounded by looming figures, as a cold, hard, blade, bit into his throat.

"Did you really think I would let things end this way little Gascon?" Garnon's voice hissed in his ear.


	12. Chapter 12

AN – Thank you so much for continued support of this story, in this chapter we finally find out what was _really_ happening in the prologue.

Standing in Treville's office the next morning Athos simply could not believe what he was hearing.

"What do you mean, he's missing?" He demanded of Treville.

"His bed is empty, there is no sign of him anywhere, no one saw or heard anything."

"He couldn't have just gone to see a friend?" Aramis offered. "Perhaps to see if he could reconcile with the lovely Constance?

"There was blood on his bed sheets and on the stairs leading down into the courtyard." Treville admitted.

"So, where ever he went he didn't go willingly." Porthos surmised.

"Garnon." Athos growled.

He ran a hand angrily through his hair. This was his fault. He knew Garnon was still a threat. He should never have let the Gascon out of his sight.

"The Comte de Lyon has a townhouse in the rue de Saint-Guillaum," Treville told them. "I've had men watching it since dawn but there has been no sign of d'Artagnan."

"Garnon would be mad to take him there." Porthos observed. "He knows it would be the first place we'd look."

Aramis moved silently so that he was standing next to Athos by the wall. He could tell from the stiff set of his shoulders and the dark look in his eyes that his friend was presently more concerned with blaming himself than anything that would actually be helpful to them.

"I don't suppose you have a Parisian townhouse tucked away somewhere that we don't know about?" Aramis trod lightly.

"Sadly, nothing so convenient," Athos responded blandly, but set of his shoulders relaxed somewhat.

It would have been far too easy. Using Athos' family home would have appealed to Garnon's twisted sense of justice, but then they rarely got that lucky. Judging it was now safe to make his real point without getting his jaw broken Aramis reached out and grasped him gently by the collar, forcing Athos to meet his eyes, before speaking kindly but resolutely. "We are going to find him, Athos. And when we do Garnon will pay dearly for what he has done. Understand?"

"I never should have left him alone," Athos berated himself. "I knew Garnon was still a threat."

"He was surrounded by a whole garrison of musketeers. We had a right to expect he would be safe," Aramis moved his hand to grip Athos' neck firmly. "Do not add to your burdens my friend this was _not_ your fault. As d'Artagnan will be the first to say when we find him."

"Ahem."

Porthos cleared his throat and the two men turned to see him and Treville watching them intently.

"Athos, if anyone is to carry the blame it should be me," Treville met his gaze. "The security of the Garrison is my responsibility."

"And we _all_ left him," Porthos put in. "Not just you. All for one, right?"

"Perhaps," Athos swallowed hard at his friend's unwavering support. "Our time would be better spent looking for d'Artagnan than assigning guilt."

"Amen to that my friend," Aramis patted him on the back. "Amen to that."

Every available musketeer was set to scouring the city for any sign. Porthos went to Flea and organised the children and beggars of the Court of Miracles to be their eyes and ears across Paris with the promise of a large reward.

"_Half now and half when we find him," He had told Flea._

"_When we find your friend I'll take your money," Flea had closed her hand over the offered pouch of coins. She had liked d'Artagnan, liked the fact Porthos had friends watching his back, and she owed these musketeers for saving her life and her home. "Until then, keep your hand on your purse."_

In the end it was one of Treville's sentries, who caught a glimpse of d'Artagnan being led across the courtyard of the Comte de Lyon's townhouse.

"Remarkable," Aramis observed, to no-one in particular even as they mounted up. "Garnon is even more stupid than we imagined."

As they approached the courtyard the sound of a whip cracking through the air caused them to reign in their horses and glance briefly at each other in horror before urging their mounts forward.

As they flung themselves off their horses each man had their sword out of its scabbard without conscious thought at the sight that met their eyes. As one their jaws clenched with unmitigated fury seeing d'Artangon tethered between two pillars. The bruises on his face and the mark of dried blood on his temple were evidence that he had not surrendered easily. The blood on his back was testament to his more recent suffering at Garnon's hands.

"Hold in the name of the King." Athos roared.

His words were enough to give the Comte's men pause. They exchanged reluctant looks, unwilling to do anything that might actually be construed as treason for of a man they followed out of duty rather than love or loyalty.

"Go now and we'll tell the Comte you were only following orders." Porthos advanced towards them, pure menace in his eyes.

No-one but Garnon was surprised when they fled.

"Stand your ground, hold fast I tell you, my father will here of this, I will have you dismissed from his service!" He protested cracking the whip in his right hand on the ground in frustration, as he realised they were leaving him at the mercy of the furious musketeers.

"I see the art of leadership still escapes you," Athos observed.

His face twisted with fury and hate Garnon turned on his heel and lashed out at Athos, not with his sword like a gentleman, but with the thick braided whip, which cut through the air with unexpected speed, catching Athos across his shoulder and neck.

"Oi."

Porthos moved faster than one might except from a man of his well-muscled build, coming up behind Garnon and grasping the whip in his large gauntlet, and using his grip to pull Garnon to his knees, before twisting the leather around his neck like a garrotte. He squeezed ever tighter as Garnon flailed, hands reaching weakly for his throat as his air was cut off.

"How do you like that, huh?" Porthos hissed in his ears. "What is it like to be on your knees before your betters? Does it make you feel helpless? Does it make you feel like the scum you are?"

Porthos paused. Over to his right, Aramis had moved to check on d'Artagnan, gently wrapping an arm around the younger man's waist as he used his knife to release him from his bonds, as he murmured soft comfort into the young man's ear. D'Artagnan sagged boundlessly against him seeming utterly spent. To his left Athos stood sentry, his sword at the ready, his eyes dark as he bore witness to the pain of his friends.

Porthos knew that no-one would lift a finger to stop him from killing Garnon if he chose. The man deserved to die for his crimes and Porthos had suffered dreadfully at his hands. But he knew in his heart that this was not his fight. Garnon's hatred of d'Artagnan had stemmed solely from his relationship with Athos. And Porthos already owed Athos far more than he could ever repay. Loosening his grip, he planted his boot firmly in the centre of Garnon's back and tipped him face first in the mud, watching impassively as Garon frantically pulled at the whip cord to reveal the red raw marks beneath.

"That's gonna leave a mark," Pothos observed cheerfully. "Never mind, you won't live long enough to get vain about it."

Stepping back, he met Athos gaze. His eyes reflecting five years of brotherhood forged in battle and tempered by loyalty and love. Athos straightened slightly, unconsciously drawing up to attention as he had no trouble reading everything from Porthos's expression that he would not give voice to in front of a man like Garnon.

"You should be grateful that Porthos du Vallon was born a better man than you, Garnon." Athos did not break eye contact with Pothos as he spoke. "He has awarded you the noble death which will be a comfort to your father even though it is ill deserved."

"You are nothing but cowards," Garnon mocked foolishly. "So, in thrall to that puppet of the King, Treville, that even now you talk instead of fight and tremble in your boots at the thought of killing me."

"I was right," Aramis offered from the side lines, d'Atagnan leaning heavily upon him as they watched the proceedings. "He really is an idiot."

Athos glanced over feeling somewhat reassured to see that the young Gascon appeared at least aware of his surroundings, although his unusual pallor and the sheen on sweat on his forehead spoke their own story.

"D'Artagnan?" He asked a world of questions in his tone.

"Still breathing," d'Artagnan assured him bravely, lifting his head off Aramis' shoulder to meet his eyes, smiling with enough of a hint of his youthful cockiness to make Athos' chest swell with pride.

Aramis added something quietly in Spanish with had Athos' eyes flashing with cold fury.

"You know," Porthos voice rang with satisfaction, "All this time you're been wrong about Athos. Hee's never been a coward. He just doesn't like to kill people unless he must."

"But you have crossed a very important line," Aramis tipped his hat at Garnon, speaking with a deceptive lightness that had both Athos and Porthos hands unconsciously going to their sword pommels due to all the trouble that tone had landed them in, in the past. "He might have forgiven the slur to his own honour when you stabbed him in the back, he does tend to rather underestimate his own worth, despite the fact that he a man of great honour and bravery, an outstanding swordsman, a true friend and did I mention that he is a brilliant tactician?"

"Aramis," Athos raised a slightly embarrassed brow, even as his eyes softened with affection. "Now is hardly the time."

"My apologies," Aramis grinned brightly and utterly unrepentantly at his friend, before his voice hardened as he focused on Garnon again. "But you made the _fatal_ mistake of targeting his friends, Porthos _branded_, d'Artganan _whipped_, for no other reason than your own selfish pride and that he will _never_ forgive."

"You deserved it, all of you. Musketeer scum, a thinking you are my equals. You needed to be shown your place."

"I could not believe it was true," A voice rich with authority sounded across the courtyard as the Comte de Lyon strode into view with Treville at his shoulder. "The Captain warned me you have behaved dishonourably but I never imagined you could have sunk so low. You are no longer worthy to call yourself my son. I wash my hands of you."

He looked at the Musketeers and d'Artagnan in particular.

"My deepest apologies, gentlemen for what you have all suffered for his sake. Forgive a father's folly for being blind to a ungrateful child's faults for far too long. Captain Treville you may deal with him as you see fit." He left without a backward glance.

Treville stepped forward his expression hard as stone as he pinned Garnon with a look.

"Your actions have brought disgrace upon this regiment. You are no longer fit to serve. This is the very least that you deserve," With those words he bent down and ripped the pauldron from Garnon's right shoulder.

"You can't do this," Garnon cried, struggling to his feet. "I will appeal to the King."

"You forget the King values loyalty above all other qualities," Treville's voice was icy. "You were motivated solely by your own interests. His Majesty has already approved my decision. May God have mercy upon you because no one here shall."

With a gentle hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and a nod to Athos, Trevillle took his leave, the pauldron hanging uselessly from his hand.

A single glance at d'Artagnan, whose strength was clearly waning, was all the motivation Athos needed to now end this swiftly.

"Draw." His tone was pure menace.

Athos went at Garnon without mercy, caring little for grace or form as he fought not as a noble but as a soldier, with deadly intent. A few short, furious, parries were all it took.

"Please, don't," Garnon begged, as Athos drew back for the fatal blow. "I will give you anything you desire."

Athos pretended he didn't hear that. Nor did he look back as Garnon's body hit the ground. Instead he strode over to where both his friends were now supporting d'Artagnan.

His heart clenched slightly as d'Artagnan drew on the last of his strength to straighten up and greet him with a proud smile. Athos did not miss Aramis' frown as he noticed that the hand d'Artagnan was holding out was trembling slightly, or the way Porthos was reluctant to stand too far from the boy in case his own legs could no longer hold him.

"I'm glad you killed him." D'Artagnan offered. "It was what he deserved."

Enclosing the boy's offered hand in his own warm grip, Athos did not hesitate, pulling d'Artagnan hard against his chest as he wrapped his other arm around his lower back, carefully avoiding the welts as he held him fast, and buried his face in his hair.

After a small sound of pleased surprise d'Artagnan clung to him, his face in Athos' shoulder as he clutched at a handful of his shirt as if it was a lifeline. The two of them just stood like that for a moment, taking strength and comfort from one other.

Then d'Artagnan raised his head, his brow furrowing with concern as he looked at his fingers entwined in Athos shirt and realised they were stained with red.

"You're bleeding."


	13. Chapter 13

"If it's "nothing" then it won't do any harm for me to take a look at it," Aramis countered Athos' predicable reaction to his wound with the same patient tone he had used numerous times in the past, before playing his trump card. "And it will reassure the boy."

Athos raised a brow, clearly imagining d'Artagnan would protest the epitaph, but the young Gascon just looked at him expectantly.

"The jacket took the worst of it." Athos remarked, as he nonetheless obligingly eased his jacket and shirt to one side "It's barely a graze."

The livid red whip mark which curled down across his left shoulder and diagonally across his back with beads of blood oozing out of the few inches by his neck where the whip had met bare skin would have been seen as a significant injury by most men.

"It will need a stitch or two," Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. "But he'll live."

"As long as he's walking and talking it ain't too bad," Porthos patted d'Artagnan's shoulder kindly. "It's when he says he's fine and then his eyes roll back in his head that you have to worry."

"Porthos, you're not helping." Athos and Aramis spoke in chorus, before scowling at each other.

Porthos wrapped his large jacket around the Gascon's narrow shoulders both to warm him and try and cushion the pain as he helped d'Artagnan up onto Athos' mount and settled him in front of the musketeer. To his embarrassment the younger man could not help a sharp intake of breath at the movement.

"It hurts, I know," Athos murmured in his ear. "But it's faster than walking and there will be less jolting than trying to take you in a carriage. Can you bear it?"

D'Artagnan wanted to say that he could the bear the torments of hell if he could stay like this in Athos' embrace, feeling the warmth of his chest behind him, the strength of his arms encircling him and all of his demons of feeling unloved or unworthy utterly vanquished.

"It's fine." He allowed.

Athos snort of fond amusement suggested he still needed to do some work on keepings his feelings from showing. But he couldn't bring himself to care much just then. Just as he was allowing himself to drift he was struck by a sudden thought.

"My jacket," He tried to sit up. "The Pauldron."

"Hush," Athos soothed, settling him back. "Aramis has them safely, just rest."

Perhaps predictably pain won out over determination and d'Artagnan was insensible by the time they reached the garrison. By unspoken agreement they brought him to the guest room, rather than his own bed in the barrack room, knowing that d'Artagnan required peace and quiet to heal and they would need the space, since this time they had no intention of leaving his side.

"I'll need water, my sewing kit, some wine, make that a lot of wine and more blankets, he's going to get chilled," Aramis issued his instructions.

Athos cleared off the small desk to give him room to work before Porthos dragged him to a chair because he was 'bleeding all over the place'. Porthos stayed to help Aramis remove both jacket and shirt, jostling the younger man as little as possible, before turning his attention to Athos.

Aramis worked with his usual meticulous care, washing the wounds out with wine to guard against infection, before taking a long drink himself against what was to come. Using neat careful stitches to close the ugly wounds, sponging away the sweat and blood with gentle strokes.

Across the room he could hear the quiet murmur of voices as Porthos cleaned Athos' wound. They argued softly over who was going to do the stitching, based on the dubious quality of Porthos' needlework, (Athos) and the side effects of blood loss (Porthos). Aramis wasn't remotely surprised when Athos won out and Porthos held a glass so that Athos could make the few stitches required in his own neck, before drinking deeply of the wine Porthos offered.

D'Artagnan only stirred once as Aramis worked, attached by the soft sounds of pain, Porthos came over and lifted his head to help him drink a few mouthfuls of wine and then stroked his hair until exhaustion did the rest.

"We probably should have given him something to eat before we gave him any wine." Aramis observed without looking up from his work. "I doubt Garnon fed him at all."

"Better this way, lightweight like him on an empty stomach it'll put him right out," Porthos observed. "And at least no one has to punch him."

D'Artagnan did not stir again. Even as they dressed him in a soft shirt, to stop the stitches catching, carried him over to the bed and tucked him in under the blankets.

"He might have nightmares," Aramis worried. "We need to see he doesn't thrash around too much and ruin my needlework."

"I've got a solution for that." Porthos grinned, jerking his head across the room.

Looking around Aramis realised that Athos had not moved out of the chair since he had finished stitching his wound. Not only that but his head was now tipped back and he was snoring softly. Aramis knew that there was only one reason Athos would be sleeping that soundly when one of his friends was injured.

"You drugged him?" He looked at Porthos with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. "Have you forgotten what happened last time you tried that?"

"He didn't need to see any of that up close," Porthos was deadly serious, as he tipped his head in the direction of d'Artagnan's damaged back. "He's going to take this hard enough as it is."

He paused.

"He's going to have me sparring until my arm drops off, isn't he?" He made a face.

Aramis grinned as he picked up a couple of the bottles of wine and walked over to unceremoniously dump their contents out the window, before placing the empties in plain sight where Athos could be forgiven for assuming he had drunk them.

"Not if we both act as if he was awake the whole time and he just _thinks_ he can't remember."

"Now that's a plan." Porthos laughed.

Together they stripped Athos to his small clothes and tucked him into the bed besides d'Artagnan. Passing one of the remaining bottles of wine between them they settled down to keep watch over their friends. At one point, d'Artagnan began to cry out and toss fretfully, obviously taken by a nightmare. But before Aramis could act Athos, his eyes still tight shut, threw out an arm and pulled d'Artagnan towards him. As soon as his head was pillowed on Athos' chest the younger man settled back to sleep.

"The boy has been good for him." Aramis mused.

"Now all we got to go is get 'im to be more like that when he's awake." Porthos observed.

It came as no surprise to any of them to discover that d'Artagnan was not a very patient, patient. He chafed at the bed rest Aramis ordered to avoid tearing the stitches. He tried to be grateful for their care but the constant pain made him irritable. Being so inactive he found he had no appetite and struggled to choke down even a few mouthfuls of broth under his friends' concerned gaze.

Every day Aramis carefully uncovered his back and checked the healing welts. Very quickly the three lower welts where the skin had been broken began to show signs of infection. Finally Aramis was forced to unpick his stitches so he could thoroughly flush out the wounds. And still he and Porthos did everything they could to prevent Athos seeing the extent of the damage.

"He'll only worry." Aramis explained to d'Artagnan.

"Then he'll blame himself, get all moody, drink even more than usual, do something stupid and then we'll have too patients to deal with." Porthos added.

"Is this another one of those "We're learnt from experience" things?" d'Artagnan tipped his head on one side.

"Athos has a history of putting himself in danger when he feels he has something to atone for," Aramis frowned. "And for one I would rather not have to dig another bullet out of him. God willing, things will look much improved once it's actually had a chance to heal."

Aramis was all too well aware scars they often looked a lot worse than they were before they started to look better. As the welts healed the dark red scabs stood out harsh and angry against d'Artagnan's usually tanned skin. Every day, morning and night, Aramis applied a salve to try and reduce the scarring.

"It's itching." D'Artagnan complained one day.

"That means its healing." Aramis reminded him. "Could you at least try to keep still?"

D'Artagnan flinched slightly as the cool slave touched his bare skin, but then did his best not to move as Aramis set to working the salve into the healing welts he began to relax, feeling himself edge towards sleep under the careful ministrations. Aramis only realised Athos had been standing silently the doorway, watching everything, when the other man turned to leave.

"Athos."

The few seconds it took to cover the now sleeping d'Artagnan and tuck him cost him precious time. Even as he moved he cursed his folly. All the effort he and Porthos had put into hiding the extent of the damage from Athos' view had been undone in a careless instant. Athos was already out of the building, across the courtyard and almost lost in the melee of the street when Aramis caught up with him under the archway.

"Athos, it's not as bad as it looks." He tried to reassure.

"Really?" Athos turned to face him. "Exactly _how_ bad is it?"

The soldier in Aramis responded to hearing _that _tone in Athos' voice with a thousand memories. How many times had they stood over fallen comrades, the tang of blood in the air and the hope of surviving until morning balanced on a knife edge between skill and hope.

"He's young and strong and perhaps even more stubborn than you are," Aramis gave a fleeting smile. "We still have to watch for infection and there'll be some scarring but I give you my word he will recover fully."

"But he will carry the scars?" Athos asked in an odd tone.

Aramis straightened to look his friend in the face. It was obvious that Athos was remembering some other occasion when someone he loved had been forced to carry the scars of what he saw as his failing.

"Most likely," He saw no point in denying it. He was skilled with a needle and young skin healed better than most, but this kind of damage was not easily repaired. He put a hand on Athos' shoulder. "You know, I'll do everything I can."

He took no comfort from the hand that came up to briefly cover his own. Athos would not want him to feel any responsibility for something for which he blamed himself.

By that evening d'Artagnan realised he was actually starting to feel better. He sat meekly as Aramis applied another coat of the healing salve and fought the urge to scratch his tormenting wounds.

"I wanted to thank you," 'He found his voice, looking steadily ahead, as a faint blush staining his still pale cheeks. "For taking such good care of me, I'm sorry I'm been such a burden to you all. I'll try to do better."

"Caring for a friend is an honour not a burden," Aramis corrected gently. "And a serious wound is always something of a trial. Sadly, that never gets easier."

"I acted more like a child forbidden to go out to play rather than a King's musketeer." d'Artagnan mocked himself.

"You think you were bad? You should see Porthos when confined to his bed or Athos when the physician counsels against the taking of strong drink."

"That genuinely does not bear thinking about." d'Artagnan mock shuddered.

Done with his task Aramis pulled down the lad's shirt and then tousled d'Artagnan's hair wildly so that it stuck up at all angles.

"Hey!" d'Artganan protested. "Mind the hair."

"I see the patient is feeling more lively," Porthos observed as he entered with a tray. He grinned at d'Artagnan. "Brought you some dinner."

"Please tell me it's not more broth?"

"Really are feeling better, huh? Nah, got that venison you liked so much when we went out for your birthday. And that thing with mushrooms and sweet peppers that you said was just like your mum used to make. And if you can eat all of that there might be a custard to follow."

"How did you afford all this?" d'Artagnan worried.

"Don't you mind, I've got the money for this and more besides," d'Artagnan's protests were ignored in favour of tucking a napkin into his shirt collar, "And it comes with strict instructions for you to eat up and get your strength back."

"May, I at least enquire the name of my benefactor?"

"Now don't go getting your hopes up that you've got a new secret admirer," Porthos teased. "This was all Athos' doing. He gave me a whole purse of money before he left and said "make sure he eats."

D'Artagnon felt warmth spread threw his chest at the generosity of his friend, Athos' brusque words belying the innate kindness of his gesture. The food did smell _really_ good. Taking a small bit he realised that for the first time in days something did not taste like sawdust in his mouth. He ate greedily for a few mouthfuls until he registered exactly what Porthos had said.

"Wait, Athos left?"

"This morning," Aramis sighed, as he and Porthos exchanged an unreadable look. "He'll be back in a few days."

"Treville's orders," Porthos clarified. "Don't look like that. It's nothing the least bit dangerous. It's just something to keep Athos busy."

D'Artagnan looked wide eyed from Aramis to Porthos, not able to reconcile their anxious expressions with the man who had spent countless hours sitting patiently by his bedside, gruffly ordering him swallow a few mouthfuls of some invalid fare, reading to him from a seemingly endless collection of adventure novels and sleeping by his side to keep his nightmares at bay.

"I'm missing something, aren't I?" He realised astutely.

"He finally saw. just how bad it was, Porthos gestured at d'Artagnan's back.

"Even the bravest of men can only stand so much," Aramis said gravely. "Athos has always found it harder to bear the pain of his friends than his own. I am not sure he will ever forgive himself for Garnon leaving you permanently scarred."


	14. Chapter 14

AN – Sorry for the delay, being back at work his brought real life crashing down and swallowed up my time to write. However, here is an extra long chapter to make up for it and I'm hoping to post the final part over the bank holiday weekend. Hope you enjoy.

In the days whilst they waited for Athos to return d'Artagnan gradually began to recover his strength and was passed fit to return to light training. After a little deliberation Aramis decided that now was a good time to develop his shooting skills.

"Clever," Porthos murmured as he returned from Palace duty to see what Aramis had the younger man doing. "Using the long barrelled musket, so he has to rest it on a forquette. Means there ain't no pull on his back."

"I have my moments," Aramis preened before he lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially. "Don't tell him. He thinks I'm just broadening his skills. You know what he's like when he thinks he's being coddled."

"He _has_ been overdoing things." Porthos worried.

"So says the man who pronounced himself "fine and fit" the day after 15 stitches," Aramis reminded him. Then he sighed. "Although, you're not the only one who's noticed. Treville's been watching again."

"If Athos was here he'd be resting, like it or not."

They both recognised the truth of that. D'Artagnan was wilful and headstrong, but he valued Athos' good opinion more than anything, which, of course, was the root of the present difficulty.

"If Athos was here our young friend would not feel the need to be running himself ragged to prove to the world at large that Garnon's treachery has left him utterly unscathed." Aramis pointed out.

"Thought maybe he would have been back by now," Porthos bit his lip.

"Athos can take care of himself," Aramis reminded them both. "And he has LeFevre and DuPont with him. If anything of note had occurred they would have sent word."

"You saying you're _not_ worried about 'im?" Porthos challenged.

"I wish I could." Aramis admitted quietly.

They both watched with no small degree of sympathy how d'Artagnan's concern built as Athos still did not return. It showed in the way his eyes flew to the archway at every sound of approaching hoof beats. In the slump of his shoulders each time he returned to put his horse up in the stables and saw the stall belonging to Athos' mount still empty. In the manner in which he took every opportunity to speak of him as if trying to fill the void left by their absent friend.

Five days after Athos had left the three remaining sat down to lunch, huddled together under the arches as the rains, which had been falling for the last two days, continued to pour down. Aramis and Porthos kept up their usual flow of conversation, but their attempts to draw d'Artagnan in fell flat. The young man sat, his eyes fixed on the entrance, his stew growing cold and all but forgotten.

"S'good this." Porthos nudged d'Artagnan. "Eat up."

D'Artagnan stirred his stew, knowing that it had been a good five minutes since he had even tried to put any in his mouth. The few spoonfuls which he had forced down lay uneasily in his stomach, making him feel a little bilious.

"Treville was expecting him back three days ago." He said instead.

"It's probably just the rain that has delayed them. That road is always difficult this time of year." Aramis soothed.

"'Specially if it floods," Porthos agreed, around a mouthful of stew.

That caused d'Artagnan to sit up straight. His eyes going wide with panic at the thought.

"You don't think they might have been washed away?"

Aramis cast Porthos a "_now look what you did_" look. The other man had the grace to look a bit sheepish.

"All Porthos meant was that If the bridge was out they would have to come the long way around. It adds a few days to any journey."

"You're worried about him," d'Artagnan pointed out stubbornly. "I can tell."

"Treville is not mistaken when he calls Athos the finest soldier in the regiment," Aramis dodged the question. "He has skill with a sword, accuracy with a musket and the wits to find ways to avoid using either unless absolutely necessary. In that respect your worry would be best reserved for anyone who dared to cross him."

"So why _are _you worried?" D'Artagnan insisted. "You weren't, at first. When you thought he would be gone only a few days you were glad he had something to occupy him. But now I see the way you two keep frowning at each other when you think I'm not looking."

"It doesn't do for Athos to be too much alone," Aramis admitted. "Especially, when he's brooding."

"But he's not alone. He has LeFevre and DuPont with him." D'Artagnan was confused.

"Yeah, but he doesn't have us," Porthos said simply.

"And on patrol, since he does not have his usual recourse to drink, he is more likely to punish himself in other ways," Aramis looked pained. "Do you remember that ambush on the road to Abbeville not long after you joined us?"

D'Artagnan thought back. That mission had been in his early days of accompanying his friends. Some important documents had to be delivered in the upmost secrecy. To that end Athos and a company of men had set off from the garrison under cover of night, laying low during the day and taking a random route as if to deflect attention.

The following day, when those who had been watching the Garrison had firmly attached themselves to Athos' false trail, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan had left in broad daylight, as if on a matter of no importance, heading in the opposite direction with the documents tucked securely in Aramis' jacket.

"I remember, you telling Treville that taking me along would be the perfect cover, because no-one would ever suspect he'd send a Gascon farm boy to protect state secrets." He scowled.

"And I was right," Aramis reminded him smugly. "The documents were delivered without anyone the wiser. That part of the plan at least was sound."

"'Cept the other part worked too well," Porthos' expression darkened. "Athos got hurt."

D'Artagnan remembered _that_ all too clearly. With the documents safely delivered they had ridden with all haste to meet up with Athos and the others on the road and let them know that the ruse was no longer necessary. Unfortunately, by the time they reached them the company had already been attacked.

"_It was an ambush," Blanchard greeted them, a bloody bandage tied around his arm. "We were outnumbered almost two to one, made for a devil of a fight."_

"_Any losses?" Porthos was the one to ask. D'Artagnan held his breath. They still hadn't seen Athos. _

"_Not on our part," He grinned. "Athos' plan of having the bombs as well as muskets and swords, scared the living daylights out of 'em."_

"_Gentlemen."_

_D'Artagnan felt a wash of relief as he saw the now familiar figure striding across the small campsite dotted with wounded musketeers. He was a little curious as to how they would greet one another after such a separation, but to his surprise Athos seemed cool, even distant._

"_Since you are here can I assume our plan was a success?"_

"_You're wounded." Aramis frowned._

_D'Artagnan blinked. Athos looked perfectly fine to him. He carried himself with his usual bearing. Now he looked closely he was a little paler than usual, but a week's hard riding, always on the lookout for danger would be wearing for the best of men. Surely, Aramis was mistaken?_

"_The documents?" Athos insisted tersely._

"_Safe where they ought to be and no one the wiser," Porthos was succinct. He gestured at Athos. "How bad is it?"_

"_It was but a glancing blow," Athos dismissed his concern. "I saw to it."_

"_You'll forgive me if I wish to check your needlework?" Aramis enquired genially._

"_Needlework?" d'Artagnan managed in a slightly strangled voice._

"_Just below his ribs I reckon," Porthos narrowed his eyes at Athos. "There must have been three of 'em at him. No way only two would have got through Athos' guard like that. Most likely one of 'em saw their chance to get a blade under his jacket when he lifted his arm to block a parry."_

"_That doesn't sound like a glancing blow." D'Artagnan frowned un-happily._

"_Gentlemen," Athos sighed in true exasperation, without the usual hint of fondness. "I assure you my stitches will hold until we return to the Garrison. Until then we all have our duty to perform."_

_Aramis stepped forward, physically closing the distance between them until they were almost touching. Porthos closed ranks from the other side._

"_Every step you take pains you," Aramis murmured. "No doubt you struggled to clean the wound and infection has set in. More than likely between the pain and the blood loss your stitches became larger and more ragged so it is not fully closed."_

"_That's gotta hurt, 'specially after a day in the saddle. You'd feel every pull on a wound like that." Porthos looked grave. _

"_Come, my friend," In an act that d'Artagnan thought was either greatly daring or impossibly foolish Aramis reached out and took Athos by the elbow to lead him aside. "Let us help you."_

_Athos closed his eyes briefly and then _leant_ into that touch._

It had been the small things, d'Artagnan realised that had brought Athos fully back to himself. The way Porthos had tethered the horses so that they were largely shielded from public view. The gentle hand in his hair as Aramis helped him to drink. Porthos holding him in his lap murmuring comfort in his ear as Aramis carefully re-did the brutal, ugly stitches, with tender loving care. Somehow Aramis had procured a bottle of brandy and d'Artagnan contributed by catching and cooking a brace of rabbits so they could all sit down to a companionable supper. And finally, they all took turns to watch over him as he slept.

"You're right," He realised now. "He will never confide in LeFevre or DuPont."

Nor permit any of the fond touches, or personal liberties which he tolerated with wry amusement from his friends. And which did so much to keep his darkness at bay.

"And the longer he's away the more we'll have to undo when he returns," Porthos sighed. "That's just how it is with Athos."

"But you've been friends for years," d'Artagnan frowned. "Shouldn't he know by now that you'll always stand by him?"

"It's not us he doubts, you clot" Porthos pointed out as if it should be obvious. "He worries that he's not worth our brotherhood."

D'Artagnan thought long and hard about that over the next few days. Athos was the best friend he had ever had. How could the man not realise how much his support and care had meant to a young man left all along in the world? He now understood where Aramis was coming from when he had said _"This is Porthos" _There was nothing he would not do for Athos.

Even if that meant he had to save him from himself.

It was seven days before Athos returned. The three men arrived in the courtyard on weary mounts streaked with mud. Each of them was soaked to the skin. LeFevre and DuPont told stories of the bridge washed away, of roads nothing but a sea of mud, of a young girl fetching water swept into a swollen river and Athos' dive into the freezing water to save her.

"We honestly thought we had lost him." DuPont shook his head. "He disappeared under the water for several minutes, but then the pair of them were washed up against some rocks."

Aramis was already cataloguing possible injuries, bruising, fractured or broken bones, head wound, related complications, lung congestion, chills, sickness and fever. Not to mention just been cold, wet and feeling utterly wretched.

"Did the girl live?" Porthos demanded.

D'Artagnan felt sick. Fully focused on Athos' well-being it had not even occurred to him that, despite his best efforts, the child might not have survived. He could not imagine what that would do to Athos.

"Yes, her family were grateful beyond words."

"And Athos?" Aramis asked.

"We're not sure," LeFerve admitted guiltily. "We made a fire and he changed into dry clothes. Robert made some stew but he ate very little. Against his protests we gave him our blankets and slept in our cloaks."

"He would say nothing, but a man could not survive what he did without some injury," DuPont's eyes were dark with concern. "We worried for his ribs and at the very least there must be some bruising given how they were dashed against the rocks."

"We are truly sorry we could not do more than we did," LeFerve clutched Aramis' shoulder. "But you know Athos."

"Indeed we do." Aramis covered his fellow Musketeers hand with his own. "Our thanks for bringing him back to us."

"This is worse than we thought," Porthos fretted once LeFerve and DuPont had departed in search of a hot meal. He hesitated, willing to defer to his friend's greater medical knowledge. "How did Athos look to you?"

Athos had rode in, handed off his horse to Jacques the stable boy, made his way up the stairs to Treville's office to report and then taken himself off the armoury to clean his mud caked weapons, with only the briefest of haunted glances in the direction of his friends.

"Thinner, paler and in a whole world of hurt," Aramis bit off each word. "We should never have let him out of our sight."

"Don't worry," d'Artagnan straightened up, his usual cocky smile replaced by a look of absolute determination as he met his friends' gaze. "I've got this one."

D'Artagnan walked quietly into the armoury. Athos was sitting at a table, his entire attention focused on cleaning his musket. To any casual observer it was an utterly unremarkable sight. To d'Artagnan who could see a whole world of pain in the slight stiffness of his shoulders and the total absence of any expression on his face to see his best friend thus was heart breaking.

"You're back." He deliberately kept his tone light. "Good trip?"

"I didn't have to kill anyone, which is always a blessing." Athos responded as if by rote. Then he hesitated and asked, almost as if he could not bear to hear the answer, but equally that he could not bear not to know the truth. "You're back on your feet I see?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan boldly took the words as an invitation to approach. Even though it wasn't at all clear that Athos had meant anything of the sort. "I'm doing well, much better, in fact."

"I am glad of it," Athos raised his eyes briefly to meet his own and d'Artagnan saw the raw sincerity in that gaze, as well as the lingering guilt, before Athos looked swiftly away.

"Is there something else I can do for you?" The voice of the Comte asked, with stiff formality.

"Well, the thing is, my back still itches like fury," d'Artagnan gave a small self-depreciating shrug. "I've got this salve I'm supposed to be putting on it. But it's_ really_ hard to reach. I thought perhaps you could help me?"

"I'm rather busy just now," Athos' tone was curt. "Ask Aramis. He has more experience with such things."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and then did either the bravest or the stupidest thing in his whole life. Which considering his natural propensity to recklessness was rather saying something.

"I don't want Aramis to do it," He spoke with quiet determination. "You are the best friend I have in the world. I need you, Athos."

Athos paused in the action of cleaning his sword, his hand hovering over the blade. D'Artagnan wasn't at all sure whether to take that as a good sign or not. Summoning his courage he stepped forward so he could lay a hand on his friend's arm.

"If we are going to continue in each other's company you are going to have to become accustomed to looking at my scars," He deliberately made his tone nonchalant. "They will probably look much worse in the summer. My skin has always darkened with the sun."

"How can you speak of it so lightly?" Athos' eyes flashed as he pinned d'Artagnan with a glare. "After what Garnon did to you. What _I _caused him to do? And now you will carry those scars for life. Why do you not hate me?"

"Because Garnon is justly dead by your hand and I will not allow him this final victory by being the cause of any rift between us," d'Artagnan countered. "Or do you think my pride more important than my love for you?"

Athos said nothing as he considered that. But he held out his hand for the small jar and stood up, waiting patiently as d'Artagnan slipped out of his shirt and turned his back to give Athos better access. D'Artagnan held himself carefully still as he realised his friend was just standing and staring at the healing welts.

"They're getting better," He spoke quietly, giving Athos time to reconcile the truth of his words with the now pink marks on his back. "Aramis says the itching is a good sign."

Still Athos did not speak, but firm, careful, fingers, began gently rubbing the salve into his back. D'Artagnan took a moment to enjoy that that feeling of being cared for before he forced himself to broach the painful truth.

"If I am to be a musketeer there will be other scars," He pointed out quietly.

Athos' fingers stilled for a moment, before they resumed their careful ministrations.

"I know," He finally spoke. "But this was never musketeer business. With Garnon it was always personal. He came after you because of your friendship with me. I might as well have whipped you by my own hand." Athos' tone dripped with guilt.

"Really? Because I thought it was all Garnon's doing?" d'Artagnan affected bemusement. He turned around so he could meet Athos' gaze. "And if he targeted me because of you then I will wear those scars with pride, because I can think of no greater honour than to be counted friend to Oliver, d'Athos de la Fere."

He smiled.

"Besides, I have it on good authority that I frequently bring such things on myself. As Porthos said I can be "a bit mouthy."

Athos looked at him for a long moment. Truly he did not believe that he deserved the forgiveness that this fine young man so freely offered. But nor could he be so churlish as to reject it.

"You have never been the least hindrance to me," he vowed. "Rather you have been something of a salvation."

"For all you have tried to close yourself off you cannot help but care," d'Artagnan smiled at him. "Your kindness is as much a part of you as breathing. You might as well scoop out your own heart or cut off your sword arm as try to deny it."

He paused.

"So, just how badly were you hurt diving into that river?"


	15. Chapter 15

AN – I had a request to include what had happened to Athos, so this is a slight interlude, before I tie up the loose ends.

* * *

Athos was not a man who accepted comfort easily. His breeding had taught him to be stoic in the face of adversity and set a good example to those he led. His training as a soldier conditioned him to ensure that his men were well cared for before he would admit to any infirmity of his own. His character meant that he resisted the least thing which smacked of coddling and that small, mocking voice inside his head which named him monster paradoxically _both_ for not preventing the death of his brother _and _condemning the woman he loved to death made him feel undeserving of the least part of human kindness.

When he met Aramis and Porthos they had quite simply driven a coach and horses through all those defences. It had started with a hand on his arm that did not seem to notice when he flinched from the touch, a firm pat on the back which ignored the way he stood stock still, marvelling at the ghost of warmth on his back that was simple human contact. Then it had become deft hands caring in injury or illness, gentle, mocking humour, keeping him from getting lost inside himself and the steady comfort of their presence, on the battlefield, in the tavern, after nightmares. And now d'Artagnan's warm brown eyes had the strength to see right into his soul.

"It's bad isn't it?" d'Artagnan tipped his head on one side as Athos hesitated.

"It's nothing," Athos assured him. "A few cuts and bruises."

"You'll forgive us if, based on past experience, we don't take your assessment at face value." Aramis spoke from the doorway.

"If you want to be fit for duty those cuts are gonna need tending," Porthos added. "No telling what kind of muck was in that water."

Reluctant to entrust him to his own Spartan quarters they brought him to Aramis' more comfortable lodgings, putting fresh linens on the bed and setting a fire in the grate. D'Artagnan was dispatched to Athos' rooms to fetch clean clothes. Aramis arranged for the large bath tub to be filled with steaming water. Porthos went to the tavern to purchase a pot of Athos' favourite beef bourguignon and a stack of bottles of the best red wine the three friends could afford.

"Don't you dare say it," Porthos warned, as Athos looked around at their endeavours. "This ain't your choice. You don't get to decide how much care about you."

"Nonetheless, I am grateful," Now that the public need to hold himself together was past Athos was visibly beginning to flag. He sank wearily into a chair and didn't move.

"You want to take those things off?" Aramis nodded at his uniform.

Athos roused himself sufficiently to remove his weapons, handing them off to a waiting Aramis, and then raised a hand and begin to laboriously undo the buttons on his jacket.

"Shouldn't we be helping him?" d'Artagnan hissed, even as he took a step forward.

"Not yet," Porthos commanded quietly, putting up a hand against his chest to hold him in place.

With grim determination Athos slowly released one button after another only to pause with a scowl when he got to the belt tightly cinched around his waist. Ignoring that for a moment, he toed off his boots, leaving little puddles of mud coloured water on the floor, before scowling at the sodden woollen stockings below as if they had offended him in some manner.

"Ribs?" Aramis asked solicitously, when it was clear Athos was not going to reach down.

"So, it would seem." Athos sighed, _very_ carefully.

"At least it's not as bad as last time," Aramis allowed, kneeling down to carefully peel off the wet stockings. "You're still talking."

"And breathing." Portho added darkly.

"When did you stop _breathing_?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"Porthos exaggerates, I was merely winded." Athos attempted to reassure.

"Falling off a cliff tends to do that to a man." Aramis observed dryly. "Can you move your toes?"

Athos looked down impassively as Aramis revealed the damage to his feet. His toes were bleeding from being stubbed on hidden rocks and the flesh was wrinkled and white in places from being too long in the cold water. With a supreme effort of will he made his toes twitch slightly.

"I don't believe you fell off a cliff." D'Artagnan was sure they were teasing him.

"Of course, I didn't fall," Athos sounded positively affronted at the insult to his poise and balance, as any fine swordsman would. "I was pushed."

"Jacket next," Armais decided.

His nimble fingers reached out and undid Athos' belt and the remainder of his buttons as he continued in a conversational tone. "To be fair it wasn't as bad as the time Porthos fell off his horse on that bridge in Beziers."

"I didn't fall either," Porthos protested as he came around Athos' other side and the two of them worked in perfect tandem to ease Athos' jacket carefully off his shoulders with the minimum of discomfort. Even so Athos' pale features went even paler. "It was my horse that fell. And, since I landed in the water at least I didn't break nothing."

"Indeed," Athos hissed softly through his teeth, as the jacket came off. "But you had .. neglected to advise .. us that you .. couldn't swim."

"You can't swim?" d'Artagnan, who had been swimming in the river on his father's farm since he could walk, could not disguise his surprise.

"I _couldn't _swim then," Porthos pointed out. "I can now."

"Because he almost drowned," Aramis narrowed his eyes at Athos' stiff posture. "I don't suppose you can raise your arms?"

"Unlikely." Athos agreed.

"So what happened to you?" d'Artagnan demanded of Porthos.

"Aramis punched me." Porthos scowled.

"You left out the part where I firstly heroically leapt into the turbulent maelstrom to save you," Aramis murmured as he carefully cut away Athos shirt with a surgeon's precision. "And then secondly where you said you thought learning to swim was "a bit poncy."

"Really Aramis? Turbulent maelstrom?" In the shocked silence that followed the removal of his shirt to reveal the myriad of dark red cuts and deep bruises spread all across his back, Athos raised a weary brow. "I seem to recall it was a millpond and a rather stagnant one at that."

"Maelstrom, Millpond." Aramis swallowed hard as he surveyed the extent of the damage to the man he loved like a brother. "The two bodies of water are not that dissimilar. I still got wet."

"At least me and Athos were doing our duty," Porthos pointed out as he helped Athos to his feet. "How many times have we had to patch you up because you were running from an irate husband?"

"I see your irate husband," Aramis helped Athos out of his breeches with careful hands. "And raise you more bar fights after you were caught cheating at cards than Athos has had bottles of good Bordeaux."

"Which vintage?" Porthos challenged.

"Er .. Gentlemen." Athos standing in his small clothes abruptly went a distinct shade of green.

"D'Artagnan!"

The young Gascon scrambled to provide a suitable receptacle for what was clearly a most pressing need. Flustered he snatched up the nearest likely object and just managed to get in in position in time. The resulting thin bile merely confirmed Aramis' suspicions that Athos had not been eating properly.

D'Artagnan watched as Aramis slid a gentle hand through Athos hair and let it rest on the nape of his neck as the man continued to retch. He heard the soft murmur of Porthos' voice offering what comfort he could. He could see the tremors running through Athos' body, the goose bumps standing up on his skin, and felt impossibly relieved when he was finally done.

"Is that _my_ hat?" Aramis frowned at him.

"Ah," d'Artagnan grimaced at the ruined receptacle. "Sorry."

Aramis spared his ruined hat a single glance. He remembered his pride when he had purchased it with its fine feather. It had far cost more than a simple head covering had any right to cost. On any other day its loss would have been a grievous blow. But he found he could not bring himself to care about fashion and frippery just now. Not with Athos still so pale and hurting.

"Do not concern yourself. It died for a noble cause," He mustered a game smile. "I would, however, take it as a kindness if you would dispose of it outside."

By the time d'Artagnan returned Athos had been helped out of his small clothes and settled in the warmth and steam of the bathtub. Porthos had fetched some soap and was gently massaging it through Athos hair grumbling softly as he washed the dried in mud out of his hair.

"What's that in the water?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"Comfry," Aramis supplied, as he set out his sewing kit. "It helps the bruises. Athos, I need you to stay awake, just a little longer."

"Maybe more than just a little," Porthos frowned, Athos hair to reveal a good sized goose egg with a small cut in the centre. "Look what I found."

"And you didn't think to mention this?" Aramis scowled at Athos.

"It slipped my mind," Athos admitted.

"You forgot you hit your head on a rock?" d'Artagnan paled. "Athos, you could have been killed!"

"But as you see I was not," Athos reasoned. "Although, I am sorely in need of a drink."

"Is that wise?" d'Artagnan looked to Aramis.

"Definitely ain't a good idea to try and stand in his way," Porthos advised. "That always ends badly."

"He's going to need something whilst I work on his back," Aramis said grimly. "Porthos can't knock him out. Not with that goose egg on his head."

"I take it this is going to be uncomfortable." Athos interjected.

"Remember, that time I had to put your shoulder back in?" Aramis looked grim.

D'Artagnan paled. He remembered seeing a labourer on his father's farm whose shoulder had been pulled out of its joint by a runaway horse. The local Blacksmith had been called in to wrench the joint back into place and the usually God fearing man had gone utterly white and screamed out a string of curses before passing out stone cold.

"Treville has brandy," Porthos reminded them.

"So, he does," Aramais agreed. "D'Artagnan, would you mind?"

"You want me to go to the Capatain and ask to borrow his brandy?" d'Artagan gulped.

"The good stuff, mind," Porthos added. "Not the cheap stuff he gives to visitors he don't like to get rid of 'em."

"You want to go and ask Treville to borrow his best brandy?" d'Artagnan needed to be _quite _sure.

"Not exactly borrow," Aramis eyed him. "After all, we can hardly give it back after Athos has drunk it all, which he most likely will."

D'Artagnan decided that Aramis really wasn't helping matters at all. He had only just become a Musketeer and here he was being asked to walk into the lions' den and brave Treville's not inconsiderable wrath. But Aramis was already rinsing out Athos' wounds with wine and Porthos had set to trimming his beard. He was the only one not helping.

"Alright," He gathered his courage and squared his shoulders. He would do this for Athos. "I'll be right back."

"You couldn't just have told him that Treville would give the shirt off his own back to help any man in the regiment?" Athos eyed his friends reprovingly as soon as the door closed behind the young man.

"Better he's not here for this," Aramis dug out his small case and extracted a pair of tweezers. "Treville will know to keep him busy for a while."

"You already borrowed the brandy." Athos realised.

"I rather feared we'd have need of it," Aramis fetched the bottle, meeting Athos' eyes. "Drink deep my friend. I have to ensure all the cuts are free of dirt and stones. This might take quite a while."

D'Artagnan hovered at the door to Treville's office. The man himself was frowning slightly as he made his way through a pile of documents. He was fairly sure that the Captain would accede to Aramis request. He just wished he did not have to be the one doing the asking.

"Something I can do for you, d'Artagnan?" Too late he realised Treville had been watching for some time.

"Um, Aramis sent me to ask," d'Artagnan hated himself a little for hiding behind the seasoned solider. "If he might have some brandy to help ease Athos' pain."

"Did he indeed?" Treville's expression was unreadable.

"Yes sir," Remembering everything Athos had done for him he stiffened his spine. "The Armagnac, if you would be so kind?"

"Spoken like a true Gascon." Treville allowed.

Treville's respect for the youngster, already growing, rose another notch. That he was prepared to face the wrath of the Captain of the King's Musketeers to help his friend spoke volumes. He had initially watched d'Artagnan's near hero worship of Athos with a degree of concern, but he had swiftly realised that the young Gascon did not follow his Lieutenant blindly. Nor was he afraid to stand up to him.

But it was clear that d'Artagnan craved the steady support and guidance that Athos offered as easily as breathing. He had always been a consummate leader of men. But something about the boy's clear need, perhaps an orphan's recent loss of his father, had forced Athos out of that self-imposed exile that only a rare few had been privileged to breech.

That Aramis and Porthos had also readily accepted d'Artagnan into what had seemed like an inviolate triumvirate said a lot for the younger man.

"Come in," Treville invited. "Let me see what I can find. How is Athos?"

"Stubborn," d'Artagnan spoke with feeling. Then he sighed softly and admitted rather more quietly. "Hurting."

"Aramis is the best in the regiment at tending to wounds," Treville reminded the young man. "He's in good hands."

"If only all wrongs were so easily corrected," d'Artagnan murmured, recalling Athos' own words. He looked at Treville, his courage bolstered by his knowledge of the Captain's respect and affection for his Lieutenant. "His physical wounds may heal but how do we address the scars he carries on his heart?"

"Having the courage to try is a good beginning." Treville looked seriously at him. "I find the best way with Athos is to ensure he is frequently reminded of his worth."

"How can he not see what sort of man he is?"

"Too many people have presumed upon his sense of duty for their own gain. Or taken his love and loyalty and trampled it into the dust. Trust me Athos has good reason to be wary. You have been good for him."

"I owe Athos everything," d'Artagnan was solemn. "I would never do anything to betray his trust or give him the least reason to doubt my loyalty to him."

"Good, because Porthos would doubtless wish to inflict some painful retribution, Aramis would plot some devious revenge and I would turn a blind eye to both."

Treville was smiling and d'Artagnan assumed he was joking. At least he hoped so. Although, he knew if he ever did anything to hurt Athos his friends would never forgive him. He was just glad that wasn't something he would ever need to worry about.

"Something else on your mind?" Treville raised a brow.

"Not really," d'Artagnan made a face. "It's just .. they said .. and I was wondering. Did Athos really fall off a cliff?"

"Is that what they told you?" Treville smiled at the young man's naivety. "Of course, he didn't."

D'Artagnan shook his head. He should have realised it was just a tall tale. He was already mentally plotting his revenge against his friends when Treville spoke again.

"He was pushed."

* * *

AN – I once cut my hand on a glass bottle as a child. The stitches barely hurt at all. Digging around in the cuts to ensure there were no pieces of glass inside – excruciating!

And yes, there might be a hint in here towards a future story - final chapter of this coming soon.


	16. Chapter 16

AN- An extra-long chapter to take us to the finish. More notes at the end. Don't want to distract you here!

"Why have we been summoned to the Palace at this time of night?" Aramis muttered as they stood in formation waiting for the King and his party to enter. "I had planned to spend the evening enjoying a fine dinner with an even finer lady."

"I had a card game lined up," Porthos grumbled. "The pot's more than a month's wages. It's taken me weeks to get a seat at that table."

"The King commanded our presence," Athos reminded them dryly. "Despite the somewhat inconvenient hour as musketeers we are rather obligated to attend."

"I don't know why I had to dress up," d'Artagnan tugged at his new blue and tan doublet. "The King sees us almost every day."

"It was either that or borrow you a cloak," Porthos reminded him. "And you're skinnier than most. Last time you wore Aramis' cloak you looked like you was dressed in your mum's curtains."

"Are you alright?" Aramis looked with concern at Athos.

"Standing is not my favourite occupation just now," Athos admitted in response to his friend's worry. His back was healing but he was still stiff and a little sore. "Hopefully, we will not have to wait long."

"DuBois told me the King once kept him waiting for four hours whilst he sat down to dinner." D'Artagnan pouted.

"Treville promised it would be swift," Aramis had faith in their Captain. "By rights you two should both still be resting."

Just then the doors were flung open. All four men fell silent and bowed low as the King and his party arrived. D'Artagnan felt slightly sick as he thought he caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the entourage. Even as he swallowed hard he heard Athos' reassuring murmur from his left.

"It's not what you think. He's been disgraced. He'll want to make amends before the King."

Athos' instincts proved correct. As soon as the King was seated, instead of commanding that they step forward the Comte de Lyon politely approached Athos.

"Monsieur Le Comte de la Fere I hope that you will accept my most sincere apologies, for the trouble that my son visited upon you and for my own ungracious behaviour towards you. I am ashamed that I did not instantly know you. Perhaps you will do me the honour of calling upon me some time?"

"My duties keep me busy." Athos notably did not apologise for that.

"But, you surely cannot intend to continue with this ridiculous charade." The Comte gestured at Athos' uniform. His words cutting all the sharper because he clearly saw no wrong in them. "It is your sworn duty to administer your estates and take your place at court. I'm sure your father would have expected nothing less?"

Accustomed as he was to seeing Athos look utterly impassive in the very worse of circumstances d'Artagnan was startled to see all the colour drain from his friend's face at the Comte's words. Beside him d'Artagnan felt Aramis and Porthos tense. Glancing across he saw Aramis was frowning in consternation whilst Porthos looked positively stricken.

"My Lord," Treville stepped forward solicitously, but with a tone that brooked no argument. "You also wished to speak to young d'Artagnan?"

"Yes, yes, of course," The Comte nodded politely. Taking an all too familiar gold signet ring off his gloved finger he turned and offered it to d'Artagnan. "Please accept this small token of my deepest regrets, for what you have suffered at my son's hands. In addition, I am sure that I can smooth your path regarding any training or expenses you might incur in your career as a musketeer."

In truth d'Artagnan wanted nothing from the Comte de Lyon expect to be left in peace. But to publically refuse the ring in front of the King would cause offence of the highest order. Already the Comte's smile was slipping slightly at the unexplained delay. Over his shoulder d'Artagnan could see Treville's frown deepening with every second that ticked past. Sweat started to collect on d'Artagnan's brow as he felt the pressure on him to act slowly build.

"Best take it," Porthos murmured sotto voice, from beside him. "I'll get you a good price for it."

D'Artagnan almost laughed out loud in relief as his friend provided the perfect solution, if the Comte had heard Portho's comment he was too well bred and too concerned with saving his own face to say anything. Bowing low the Gascon even managed a smile as he politely accepted the ring.

"You are too kind, my lord. You have my thanks for this generous gift, but I do not wish to put you under any further obligation," Protocol meant he could not look at Athos but he knew his friend would hear his meaning loud and clear. "I already have everything I need."

"As you wish," Now that his tarnished family honour had in some part been redressed in the eyes of the King the Comte was eager to withdraw. "Then simply know that if the Comte de Lyon may ever be of assistance to you than he is at your service."

"There is just _one_ more thing, my lord." D'Artagnan realised. "There is a stallion in your stables which rightly belongs to the musketeer Aramis. I would be grateful for its return."

As swiftly as Treville had promised they found themselves dismissed and free to leave.

"So," Porthos nodded at the signet ring. No-one had missed the significance of the fact that d'Artagnan had kept it clenched in his fist rather than actually putting it on his finger. "Want me to sell that for you? Should fetch enough for a decent sword?"

"No," D'Artagnan could not stand the thought of profiting from something that had caused him and his friends such pain. He put the ring in Porthos' gloved hand and closed his fingers around it. "I want you to give it to Flea. Tell her to make good use of it."

Porthos' beaming smile was all the thanks he needed for his gracious act. The ring was wealth enough to feed the orphans of the Court of Miracles for a good long while. With eyes full of gratitude and respect Porthos pulled him into a bear hug. Aramis beamed like a proud uncle and wrapped an arm around him, as he mussed his hair fondly. For his part, Athos smiled solemnly and then formally offered his hand.

"This again?" d'Artagnan raised a brow. "Really?"

Athos' face split into as wide a smile as d'Artagnan had yet seen from him, his eyes positively sparkling with mischief as he pulled the younger man into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around him, so his feet actually lifted off the ground.

"Well, would you look at that." Porthos beamed.

"And neither of them even close to death," Aramis spoke loudly. "Remarkable."

"Very funny," d'Artagnan observed as the two men broke apart, his nonchalance somewhat at odds with the two pink spots of pleasure in his cheeks. "Your time would be better spent thinking about when I am ever going to find a new sword?"

"You liked the balance of that one in the rue de Saint Germain," Aramis reminded him. "With that exquisite engraving on the pommel?"

"It was almost perfect," d'Artagnan sighed. "But I would need to sell my horse, her saddle and bridle, and everything else I own in order to afford it."

"I have an idea," Aramis said brightly. "Since you have so graciously procured the return of my stallion perhaps we can prevail upon Treville to give you the money he was planning to spend at the auction towards a new sword?"

"A problem for another day, I think," Athos intervened. "You two might still have time to fulfil your engagements if you make haste?"

"Naw, I can gamble any time. How often do I get to spend time with you gents?" Porthos grinned.

"Only every day?" d'Artagnan offered.

"And the hour is much too late now to inconvenience any lady of quality by calling upon her," Aramis decided. "I will send an appropriately ostentatious gift in apology and my absence will make her heart feel all the fonder."

"Gentlemen," Athos fixed them with a knowing look. "It is a long time since I required a nursemaid, much less a brace of them."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a positively guilty look and d'Artagnan was reminded of their joint consternation in the throne room when the Comte de Lyon had intimated Athos first duty was to his estates. He realised that due to Treville's intervention Athos had not actually responded. He blinked. Surely they did not really believe that Athos would return to his old life?

"Athos, my friend you have always been the noblest man I know," Aramis spoke gently. "Your career as a musketeer has saved countless lives and righted so many wrongs, the deeds you have done in the King's service have been for the safety of the entire realm. Any father would be proud to have such a son."

_Oh. _d'Artagnan realised.

"Well, since he is dead we can hardly inquire." Athos said stiffly, and it was obvious that The Comte de Lyon's words had pricked his sense of duty.

"Then listen to me," Treville approached the small group. "Athos you are the greatest soldier in the regiment, a brilliant swordsman, an excellent tacticition. Your father commanded respect because of his birth. Your men follow you not because of your status but because of the man you are. If you were to return to La Fere the King himself has remarked on the loss to the regiment and to France."

"You once told me good things can come out of hard choices," Porthos reminded him. "You being a musketeer, that's a good thing. It ain't right that a man like the Comte de Lyon thinks he can look down on you. For all his wealth and power, what good has he ever done?"

"I for one am grateful beyond words that you chose this path," d'Artagnan added his voice. "I don't know what I would have done if I had not found you here."

"Besides," Aramis smirked as he rocked backwards. "I really can't see you cooling your heels at court day after day. Forced to make polite conversation with octogenarian widows and wear ridiculous concoctions of brocade and lace."

"Yeah, we all know how much you like the leather." Porthos chortled.

"So, shall we retire to the tavern then?" Aramis suggested.

"I'd better not hear one report of behaviour unbecoming a musketeer," Treville warned. "The King's patience only extends so far."

"So, just as long as we don't get caught, eh?" Porthos chucked merrily, only to turn it into a cough under Treville's withering glare.

It took a few more days until Aramis decided that both d'Artagnan and Athos were fit to return to full duty. They knew from experience that Athos was no more patient as a patient than d'Artagnan had been. But the Gascon was determined to repay his friend's kindness by finding ways to keep Athos occupied without over exerting himself. He persuaded his friend to tutor him in Spanish, he convinced Athos to accompany him on a gentle hack into the countryside so they might both soothe and stretch sore muscles in an afternoon of swimming and relaxing in the sun. He even taught the nobleman the rudiments of cooking as Athos chopped and diced with impressive precision as the Gascon introduced all his friends to the gastronomic heritage of his region and their friendship grew stronger because of it.

On the day scheduled for his return to full duty d'Artagnan woke just before dawn feeling more than a little nervous. After a quick wash he dressed swiftly, taking a little more time as he shrugged into his jacket and buckled the pauldron to his arm. Making his way down into the courtyard he smiled at the sight of Athos leaning nonchalantly against a post waiting for him and his nerves instantly subsided.

"You do realise he's not a morning person?" Aramis put in cheerily from the side lines.

"Good," d'Artagnan felt his habitual confidence rise. "That means I might win."

"Not a chance," Porthos laughed. "But if you can knock him on his arse we'll buy you a decent breakfast."

"Never going to happen," Athos smirked.

D'Artagnan started off a little hesitantly. Although, his mind and body quickly remembered moves and counter moves, using a sword that was not his own simply did not feel _right_. Athos was patient and encouraging, gradually pushing his boundaries until they were fighting at full force and he could feel the blood sing in his veins at the familiar thrill of it.

"You did well." Athos praised, those three words meaning more to him than a thousand platitudes.

The four friends sat down to breakfast at their usual table in high spirits. D'Artagnan had such a hearty appetite that Aramis laughed and gave up half his plate in his favour. The young Gascon happily ignored their collective jibes as he dug in, in favour of filling his seemingly bottomless stomach, noting with satisfaction that Athos also ate considerably more than he had been of late.

"D'Artagnan," Treville came across to their table carrying a large, flat, package, tied up with string. "I do believe I heard you tell the Comte de Lyon that you had everything you needed, but I think you might have a use for this."

As he accepted the parcel d'Artagnan cast a startled look at his friends, whose smiles indicated they knew exactly what was going on. Slightly relieved, he tore open the paper to reveal the familiar blue of a musketeer cloak.

"Captain," He swallowed hard. "This is too generous. I can't accept this."

"A man who is so determined to uphold the honour of the regiment ought to be sure to look the part." Treville advised. "Garnon bought nothing but dishonour to the good name of the musketeers. You paid a high price so we could be well rid of him. Believe me this is well deserved."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan smoothed a hand over the material. "I'll be proud to wear it."

Only when Treville had left did d'Artagnan turn to look at Athos, who was continuing to eat his breakfast as if there was nothing amiss.

"You don't mind," He asked quietly. "That I could not save the one you gave me?"

"The damage was entirely Garnon's fault not yours," Athos absolved him. "And Treville wanted to do this for you. He carries his own guilt that you were hurt under his command."

"If he feels that guilty maybe this would be a good time to ask him about buying d'Artagnan a sword?" Aramis suggested.

"Or if you've finished eating," Athos fixed him with a predatory look. "The last time we sparred you still had a tendency to parry too wide when you got over confident."

Aramis groaned and hid his face in his hands.

Later that morning d'Artagnan was still grinning at the memory of Athos, in an almost poetic display of swordplay, beating Aramis three times in a row. As he bounded upstairs to the barrack room to put his new cloak away, he felt an intense sense of belonging and brotherhood and could not imagine having better friends.

Only to come to a dead halt.

A long wooden sword box sat waiting on his bed. D'Artagan approached it cautiously, the ornate carving and lovingly burnished wood clue enough that this was no ordinary blade from the armoury. Almost of their own volition his fingers reached out and opened the brass catch carefully lifting the heavy lid.

Inside, nestled in a bed of rich blue velvet was quite simply the most magnificent sword d'Artagnan had ever seen. It was clearly the work of a master craftsman. Unable to resist the temptation he lifted it out of the box. It fitted his hand as if made for him. Turning it into the light d'Artagnon marvelled at its perfection. Each detail had been meticulously finished. Yet it was a true soldier's weapon, the weight and balance judged to perfection.

"Will it serve?"

D'Artganon was somehow not surprised to hear Athos' measured tones behind him.

"Athos," d'Artagnan's pride reared its head. "After everything you've done for me, you don't owe me anything, much less a new sword."

"In truth, it's rather an old sword," Athos shrugged. "But if it doesn't suit, you are at liberty to refuse it."

D'Artagnan weighed the blade lightly in his hand, already feeling that mesh of man and metal that was so crucial in making a well-crafted sword feel like an extension of your own arm.

"It's utterly magnificent." He replied sincerely.

"Good."

Caught up in his admiration it took d'Artagnan a moment to realise that, apparently satisfied with their brief exchange, Athos had simply turned on his heel and left. Huffing a breath of exasperation at how _impossible_ the man could be sometimes, d'Artagnan took a moment to reverently lay the blade back in its box and fasten it securely before taking off after the musketeer. He was right across the courtyard and under the arch before he caught up with him.

"Athos, wait!"

"Is there a problem?" Athos asked evenly.

"Is there a ..?" d'Artagnan closed his eyes and clenched his fists, willing himself to have patience. "Athos, that sword is the best I have ever seen. You cannot just give it to me."

"I believe I already have."

D'Artagnan scowled. Despite the deadpan tone he was certain Athos was _teasing_ him. He rubbed a hand across his face and tried to regroup his thoughts. Athos seemed completely at ease with the fact that the sword must have cost more that d'Artagnan would have earned in a year working on the farm. If anything he was rather pleased with himself. The young Gascon could not deny that just that brief handling had been enough to spoil him for any other blade. And it would be ungrateful in the extreme to reject the gift when Athos so clearly meant for him to have it.

"I don't know how I can repay you." He settled for honesty.

Something that was _definitely_ a smile tugged at the corner of Athos' mouth.

"If we are to continue in each other's company it would probably be best to dispense with such notions. We are already in each other's debt more than most men achieve in a lifetime."

"That is true," d'Artagnan acknowledged wryly. "Nonetheless, I am grateful. More than I can say."

"You can make me one promise." Athos allowed.

"I swear that I will never again be so foolhardy. If I find myself in over my head I will ask my friends for help."

Athos gave a quick, satisfied, nod. A hint of pride in his eyes that the younger man had understood exactly what he required and not been afraid to acknowledge his fault, such as it was, for by any man's reckoning d'Artagnon had been more than punished for his foolish pride. Athos waited just long enough to see the soft, affectionate smile spread across d'Artagnan's features at his response, before he made to walk away.

"Athos," d'Atrtagnan called after him. He was aware that he may be treading on dangerous ground. But some instinct forced him to ask. "Where did you get it?"

Athos stilled. His shoulders stiffened slightly and for a moment d'Artagnan thought he would not reply. But after a long moment he spoke without turning.

"It was my brother's sword."

In the time it took for d'Artagnan to process the implications of that he was gone. Suddenly feeling as if his legs could not hold him, d'Artagnan slid down the wall to sprawl on the ground. Part of him had suspected that the sword must be a legacy from Athos' past. But to hear from his own mouth that it had belonged to his beloved younger brother almost undid him.

"I wish I had known you," He murmured to the absent Thomas. "I know we would have been friends. I swear I will watch over for him for you. Always."

AN – So, here we are finally at the end of the story. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, fav'd and followed me on this journey. I hope to write more and have a couple of things in the works but if you have any ideas as to how I can further torture Athos I would love to hear them.

BTW the comment about leather is indeed a nod to Tom Burke's discussions on the DVD extras about Athos' costume!


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